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BY 



JOHJV HUJVTER^ JESU. 



Chi mi dara la voce e le parole 
Convenienti a si nobil soggetto ? 
Chi Tale al verso prestera, che vole 
Tanto, ch* arrivi a l'alto mio concetto? 

Ariosto. Canto3. Stanza l. 



THE THIRD EDITION. 



LONDON: 

PRINTED FOR CADELL AND DAVIES, STRAND; 
BY T. BENSLEY, BOLT COURT. 

1805. 



fA 



JffnrTV 



Library of Congress 
By transfer from 
State Department. 
MAY 3 1 1927 



t*8 



CONTENTS. 



A tribute to the memory of illustrious and un- 
fortunate poets. 

Canto 1 Page 3 

2 15 

3 29 

4 43 

Notes on the tribute 51 

A fragment 60 

Cecco's complaint, with a preface 6g 

Pastoral elegies '. . i * ; . . . 97 

Amelia 104 

On solitude 109 

On contemplation 113 

EPISTLES. 

To my brother Robert lip 

To a lady, with my poems 122 



IV 

To Caroline, on the same occasion. Page 124 

To the same 126 

To three sisters 131 

To Miss W 133 

To a lady at St. Albans 136 

To the same 140 

The prophetess , . . 143 

The story of Count Ugolino , 149 

MISCELLANIES. 

The pair of boots 157 

The sagacious calculator l6l 

The Ephesian matron 1 63 

The doctor and lady 3 JO 

The incantation 1 73 

The beauty 1/6 

The contrast , 179 

The consolation of age 181 

A valentine 1 84 

To my book 191 

To Maria 193 

To the same, with a phial of ottah of roses. . 196 



V 

To the same, studying French Page 197 

The effusion 199 

The preference 202 

The remonstrance 205 

The dream 208 

The ascendency 211 

On the death of a lady's Canary bird 215 

On the same subject 217 

Sonnets 221 

Epigrams 23 1 



Directions to the binder for placing 
the plates. 

The author's portrait to face the title." 

No. 1 to face page Q v 

....2 77 

3 146 / 

....4 ...215 



ERRATA. 

Page 1 7 , line 1 8, for labours, read labour. 
18,— 8, for whilst, read what. 
43, — 14, for a comma insert a period. 



A 

TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY 

OF 

ILLUSTRIOUS AND UNFORTUNATE 

POETS. 



ARGUMENT. 

Introduction. The powers of Homer's muse, his poverty, 
friendlessness, and death. Island of Paros; Archilochus 
born there ; his banishment, victory at the Olympic games, 
and return to his native land. 



A 

TRIBUTE TO THE MANES 

OF 

UNFORTUNATE POETS. 



ARGUMENT. 

Introduction. The powers of Homer's muse, his poverty, 
friendlessness, and death. Island of Paros; Archilochus 
born there ; his banishment, victory at the Olympic games* 
and return to his native land. 



CANTO I. 

Whilst martial deeds the youthful bard invite 

To paint the horrors of the deadly fight, 

Or beauty's charms his tender muse inspire 

With polish'd wit, and delicate desire 5 

Me nobler themes with tuneful zeal inflame, 

And point the passage to unblemish'd fame. 

Ye bards! who, ranging in a happier sphere, 
No longer heed the wrongs ye suffer'd here, 
No more are fearful of the tyrant's frown, 
Nor envy, foe to virtue and renown | 
Who, placing in desert a fragil trust, 
Found fortune fro ward, and the world unjust, 
Your woes to celebrate, your praise to sound, 
I boldly venture on poetic ground : 
And if my undistinguish'd muse shall hear 
No heaving sigh, nor mark a trickling tear, 



The fault be mine, and let the critic deem 
The verse deficient, but sublime the theme. 

The gods at variance, and the world in arms, 
For beauteous Helen's violated charms j 
The son of Peleus, vainly brave and wise, 
For private wrongs deserting honour's ties ; 
The heaven-built towers of Troy, the Phrygian plain, 
The sage Ulysses, wandering o'er the main, 
Form the substantial base of Homers strain. 
His warm description of contending foes 
The tamest mortal rouses from repose, 
And far transports him from his native shore 
To feel a spirit never felt before. 
Behold yon warrior 'gainst a numerous field 
Hold contest fierce 5 his soul disdains to yield. 
The hostile bands he views with no affright, 
Nor feels a wish to shun the unequal fight 5 
And when long toil, and drooping strength, supply 
No hope to conquer, he's content to die. 
Now round the prostrate hero hosts assail 
To strip the body of its shining mail y 



Now succouring hosts, as resolute, defend, 
Profuse of life, their too adventurous friend. 
Of mutual courage, and of equal meed, 
Those legions now advance, now these recede 5 
Who late were conquerors are now subdued, 
And each, by turns, pursues, and is pursued. 
Whether his muse in lofty measure sings 
The proud achievements of the king of kings, 
The toil and slaughter of the well-fought day, 
And gods and men in one promiscuous fray, 
Or on a soft pathetic story dwells, 
With equal grace his pliant verse excels. 
Now in our breast is warlike ardour felt, 
With pity now and tenderness we melt. 
When bards by partial nature are design'd, 
In deathless metre, to instruct mankind, 
Is gratitude a tribute too severe 
For lays t;hat mend the heart, and charm the ear ? 
Mark Homer's lot : his destiny explains 
How worth is foster'd, and what song obtains. 
Fortune, though friendly to the fool, and knave, 
No golden gifts to his possession gave, 



6 

But fix d this curse on his devoted head 

On mortal bounty to depend for bread. 

And when to each inhospitable door 

His weary limbs could drag their weight no more, 

Though heaven refus'd to grant her cheerful light 

Again to welcome his extinguished sight, 

Though age and grief his batter' d strength overcame, 

And sickness prey'd upon his languid frame, 

He found no still retreat, no feeling mind, 

But liv'd, and died, abandon'd by mankind. 

No friend in that momentous hour was nigh 

His sad funereal duties to supply, 

With pious hand his monument to rear, 

And sooth his flitting spirit with a tear. 

Let bards, with youthful love and genius warm, 

Their visions fancy, and their fables form ; 

Tell how the guardian tenants of the air 

From misery shield them, and protect from care 5 

Cause every hour with ecstacy to fleet, 

And scatter fragrant roses at their feet ! 

In gay imaginations fairy views 

How grand the structure! beautiful the hues! 



But let the dawn of reason once pervade, 
The palace crumbles, and the colours fade. 
Before the light of truth they glide away 
Like frighten'd phantoms at the dawn of day $ 
And as they vanish, their regretted place, 
So lately fiird with such enchanting grace, 
Is throng'd with scenes from life, of blackest dye, 
That wound the feeling, and offend the eye. 
Not far from Marathon's illustrious plain 
The isle of Paros rises on the main, 
Above the rest to ancient artists known, 
Distinguish' d for her monumental stone. 
Thanks to her quarries ! we may still behold 
Sagacious legislators, heroes bold, 
Whose close resemblance cheats the sight, and still 
Inspires, beyond the reach of modern skill. 
As in the learned labours of the sage 
We hold communion with a distant age, 
So we in sculptur'd art, to nature true, 
Departed forms in breathing marble view. 
But more important trophies Paros owns 
Than speaking busts, and monumental stones. 



8 

There first Archilochus beheld the day, 

And gave her fame that never shall decay. 

The guilty times, voluptuous, loose, and vain. 

Require the tone of satire's angry strain. 

No more the sons of Paros take delight 

In brave adventure, and in fields of fight. 

Their swords, to past celebrity unjust, 

Retain'd for show, in long inaction rust. 

In festive halls, where gold with ivory vies, 

And Persian silks are rich with Tyrian dyes, 

They revel in licentious joys, and deem 

The pride of glory but an idle dream. 

From such pursuits it was the poet's aim 

His inconsiderate country to reclaim, 

To snatch her honour from impending gloom 

To flourish brightly with a second bloom. 

But by a captious tribe, unus'd to brook 

Ingenuous counsel, and deserv'd rebuke, 

Compell'd his home and household gods to fly 

To friendless strangers, and a foreign sky, 

He found, too late, where vice perverts the heart, 

That silence ever is the wisest part. 



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9 

But venerable Elis now proclaims 
The time appointed for her sacred games. 
From various climes the tribes their way pursue 
The prize to claim, or spectacle to view : 
The signal drops; the fiery coursers bound, 
The eye scarce runs the rattling chariot's round, 
Whilst spreading clouds on clouds of dust arise 
In sable volumes to the darken'd skies, 
Like morning mists, or moving sheets of sand, 
When storms convulse Arabia's desert land. 
What anxious thoughts, alternate hope and fear, 
Now fill the bosom of the charioteer ! 
His cheering clamours to his steeds impart 
The generous zeal that animates his heart; 
They strain, they fly, one spirit nerves the whole; 
Ah! see the victor reach his destin'd goal. 
His hands receive the hard-contested prize, 
And lofty bards his praise immortalize. 
Hark ! listen to the lyre's enchanting sound, 
'Tis heavenly harmony! 'tis fairy ground! 
What voice, so finely tun'd to holy love, 
In swelling accents chants the deeds of Jove } 



10 

No shouts of rapture, from the bending throng, 
With rude applause suspend the sacred song -, 
But when no more the murmuring air sustains 
The charming burthen of his varied strains, 
The silence into acclamation swells, 
And every tongue his merit fondly tells. 
Impatient fame now takes her rapid flight 
To pay those honours which her sons delight. 
Compared to her, when any signal deed 
Inflames her spirit, and impels her speed, 
The eagle's swiftness is a sluggard's pace, 
And thought can scarce her expedition trace. 
She soon with restless industry pervades 
The busy cities, and the tranquil shades, 
Where'er she passes eagerly proclaims 
The happy victors at th' Olympic games ; 
And, dwelling most upon desert most rare, 
The bard of Paros is her dearest care. 
Her loudest voice and trumpet's shrillest sound 
His name distinguish, and his praise resound. 
All nations hear them: waken d from her dream 
His country past injustice would redeem, 



11 

And hastened to repeal the harsh command 
That doom'd her bard to fly his native land. 
Thus, in glad triumph, to his home res tor' d, 
All worldly blessings on his fortune pour'd, 
Alas ! the tide of transport was too strong 
For one so feeble to support it long. 
So late the victim of a thankless state, 
The mark of malice, and the sport of fate, 
Now every joy he had that man can have, 
The sudden tumult bow'd him to the grave. 
His countrymen wept o'er their poet's dust, 
And in their temples placed his laurel'd bust. 
Fools ! to imagine that the sculptur'd stone 
Could skreen their folly, and their guilt atone. 
Can the nice chisel's imitative art 
A gleam of pleasure to the dead impart, 
Or the mausoleum's funeral parade 
With mundane rapture animate his shade ? 

But, reader, now my drooping muse would ask 
A short cessation from her arduous task. 
Soon shall the dews of rest her strength restore, 
And fear and lassitude be felt no more; 



12 

So when a ship of bold adventure's bound, 

With toilsome search, the world to measure round, 

After long months at sea she points her prore, 

With favouring winds, to gain some happy shore ; 

She there her harass'd company regales, 

Recruits her losses, and repairs her sails ; 

And then, with prompt alacrity, again 

Courts the fresh breeze, and scuds along the main. 



CANTO II. 



ARGUMENT. 

Ovid, love the theme of his muse, banished to Tomi by the 
emperor Augustus. Seneca, his virtue and integrity, meets 
his fate with stoical firmness. Nero contends for the prize 
of poetry; Lucan, his competitor, adjudged the laurel; 
unhappy consequence of his victory. 



15 



CANTO II. 



The varying verse from Ovid's pen that flows 

Now melts with love, and now with vengeance glows. 

Inspir'd by him, in more pathetic strains, 

Of long neglect, Penelope complains, 

And fiercer transports, and a subtler flame, 

Invade the bosom of the Lesbian dame. 

Ah ! Phaon, hadst thou heard the notes divine, 

Her ardent passion had been match'd by thine. 

Her grief divided, her affection shar'd, 

Th* ill-fated lover had not then despair'dj 

Tears, shame, and anguish, had not then been hers, 

But all the joys that mutual love confers. 

In softer accents, and more plaintive tones, 

The tender Hero o'er Leander moans, 

And fair Eliza, in her sad appeal, 

At length finds eyes that weep, and hearts that feel. 



16 

Warm'd with love s pleasures, and by nature fit 

For soft endearments, and ingenious wit, 

He ne'er was sour'd, by satire's dangerous spleen, 

To lash the vices of the proud and mean, 

To view their follies with a cynic's eyes, 

And vainly hope to teach them to be wise. 

Then why should Caesar, with severe command, 

Bid him depart Saturnia's fertile land, 

With every motive to protect, and bless, 

Extend his arm to gall him, and oppress ? 

By power perverted, haunted by distrust, 

Shall we e'er see the gloomy despot just ? 

The smiles of peace upon his visage wear 

Destructive passions from his bosom tear, 

Ferocious hatred, impious pride, disband, 

And drop the scourge from his exhausted hand? 

To Tomi's coast, where frets the Euxine wave, 

And the hoarse winds in sullen murmurs rave, 

The bard retir'd: in that inclement clime 

No muse had spread the pleasing power of rhyme, 

No active sage had form'd his noble plan 

With laws to tame the savage heart of man. 



17 

Upon this rude and barbarous country thrown, 
Where every art and science were unknown, 
Where simple nature was the only guide, 
To Rome a stranger, and to Roman pride, 
His polish'd manners, and enlighten d mind, 
Charm'd the rude temper of th' unletter'd hind. 
O power of harmony ! the rugged throng 
Was captivated by the sound of song. 
O'er every clime, to earth's remotest ends, 
The sovereign influence of verse extends. 
Its charms alike in every soil engage 
Th' untutor'd savage, and experienced sage, 
The lofty minstrel raise to fame, and spread 
A bright divinity around his head. 

What dangers threaten, and what ills attend 
The envied man esteem'd the despot's friend! 
If, crouching to his lord's imperious will, 
His every wish he labours to fulfil, 
Though spurn'd by justice, though disclaim' d by sense^ 
And purchas'd at a nation's dear expence, 
Will solitude no keen reflections bring, 

Nor usher conscience with her vengeful sting ? 

c 



18 

Should sacred freedom in his bosom dwell. 
And prompt his lips uncourtly truths to tell, 
Should he, with honest eloquence, evince 
That rigid virtue best becomes a prince, 
That adulation is a noxious weed, 
On which alone incautious ideots feed, 
Say what success his generous toil attends, 
What wisdom aids, whilst gratitude commends? 
Oh shame to man ! a formidable band, 
That preys upon the vitals of the land, 
Incens'd to find unboasting merit priz'd, 
And wheedling craft, and daring guilt, despis'd, 
Conspires his fall, and he in vain contends 
With open rivals, and insidious friends. 
Whilst Seneca pursued, with steady aim, 
The rugged path of honour, and of fame, 
The advocates of vice the tyraut's mind 
(For fear and wickedness are ever blind), 
With vain alarm assail'dj too soon believ'd, 
Unsure suspicion is for proof receiv'd ; 
To jealous power his crimes appear reveafd, 
His crimes are virtue, and his fate is seal'd. 



19 

But death, in all its solemn terrors dresr, 
Seems but the passage to eternal rest 
To him who, when that awful hour draws near, 
Securely feels he has a conscience clear : 
And the j ast Roman, fearless and composed, 
Receiv'd his sentence, and his labours clos'd. 
While happier prospects on his senses rush, 
From his pierc'd veins the purple torrents gush 
Unheeded, and unfeltj his soul, intent 
On better hopes as life becomes more spent, 
Approaching peace, and future bliss, foresees 
In prescient thought, and lofty reveries : 
Whilst his fell persecutor never knows 
A gleam of joy, a moment of repose. 
Conscience, a smiling seraph, heavenly bright, 
Wh(5 cheers the good with visions of delight, 
Becomes a foul and loathsome hag to goad 
The man encumber'd with a guilty load. 
O'er his devoted head she hangs the sword, 
In peaceful shades, and at the festive board j 
And when, exhausted, to his couch he flies, 
The hideous fiend still flits before his eyes, 



20 

A fierce avenger in his sleep she seems, 
And scares his fancy with distorted dreams; 
Till from his horrid views, and troubled rest, 
The wretch awakes, not strengthen'd, but opprest. 
Unhappy prince ! nor sex, nor youth, nor age, 
Could find a shelter from thy barbarous rage, 
Nor playful innocence thy wrath disarm, 
Nor pity melt, nor love thy fierceness charm, 
Nor poesy, that seldom pleads in vain, 
Rouse thy remorse, and thy affection gain. 

In crowds the people to the forum throng 
To hear the tuneful favourites of song. 
Rude shouts, that Rome's remotest parts might hear, 
Announce the master of the world is near. 
Where is her noble love of freedom flown 
Which hurl'd the proud Tarquinius from his throne ? 
Where that undaunted courage, manly pride, 
Which adverse fortune's rudest shock defied, 
At length drove Pyrrhus from th' Italian states, - 
And felt secure with Carthage at her gates ? 
With honour, virtue, and with valour, bless'd, 
In victory mild, in danger not depress'd, 



21 

On one grand aim incessantly intent, 

The world to her aspiring genius bent. 

But when her rivals, crouching, and appall'd, 

No more her sons to glorious action call'd, 

When countless riches from each quarter rlow'd 

To gild their city, which her laurels ow'd 

To hardy poverty, they soon became 

Dead to the spur of honourable fame. 

Pernicious luxury, with alluring arts, 

Soon stole upon their enervated hearts, 

And canker'd all their virtues : in their stead 

Unblushing profligacy rear'd his head, 

Contempt of laws, and decency, was seen, 

And drunken riot with disgusting mien; 

Murder stalk'd forth, with bold unfaltering pace, 

And irreligion show'd her horrid face. 

When the false homage, and obsequious prayer, 

Are idly scatter' d in the fields of air, 

The appointed herald to the crowd proclaims 

The candidates that have enroll'd their names. 

Amid the tuneful and adventurous band 

Rome's mighty master condescends to stand, 



22 

Who sick of royal pomp, and splendid show, 
Courts the coy muse her favours to bestow, 
And heedless of his dignity, defies 
Saturnia's minstrels to contend the prize. 
He spoke, and Nero, from his golden seat, 
Flush' d with gay visions, thoughtless of defeat, 
Rose, and his station in the rostrum took, 
Pride in his heart, presumption in his look. 
The circling throng th' imperial bard revere 
With voice suppress' d, and with attentive ear. 
Such silence o'er the ocean's face prevails 
When lurid weather, and tempestuous gales, 
Have left the glassy surface of the wave 
To droop and slumber in the mossy cave. 
Such mute respect the Pythian maid obtains 
From rapt predictions, and mysterious strains 
When from Apollo's venerated shrine 
She wildly utters oracles divine. 
But in his metre, harsh, unform'd, and mean, 
No fancy's, bright extravagance is seen, 
Nor bold sublimity that wings its flight 
High as the farthest ken of mortal sight* 



23 

For, spite of all that labour can bestow, 
The style is turgid, and the thoughts are low. 
Soon as he ceases, the obsequious train, 
Dreading a monarch whom no laws restrain, 
Ferocious, rash, untractable, and vain, 
Withdraw their hopes, and prove that fetters bind, 
With equal sway, their body and their mind. 
But Lucan, rous'd with just disdain to hear 
The prize adjudg'd a wretched sonneteer, 
Th' award disputed. Him the nine inspir'd, 
Arrn d with their spirit, with their fancy fir'd. 
He rose his nation's honour to redeem, 
Love tun d his verse, and Orpheus was his theme. 
From his fond transports, and desiring arms, 
In youthful beauty, fair in bridal charms, 
Reluctant, struggling, weeping, and forlorn, 
The lovely mistress of his heart was torn. 
Despair her lover racks : he seeks the shades 
Of sullen night, and Pluto's realm invades. 
In vain around him imps, and demons throng, 
Dreadful with ghastly stare, and mystic song. 
In vain the tortur'd ghosts assail his ear 
With shrieks and groans— a lover knows no fear. 



24 

In his strait way the direful furies stand, 
Death in their look, and serpents in their hand, 
But, fearless of their menace, he proceeds, 
And to the gloomy son of Saturn pleads : 
He strikes his lyre, he swells his tender strain, 
And guilty shades awhile forget their pain, 
Hell's grisly tyrant strange emotion feels, 
And down his cheek the tear of pity steals. 
His rugged nature, and affections rude, 
By verse are soften' d, and by sound subdued. 
He grants the minstrel's venturous pretence 5 
' Go,' he exclaims, ' and lead thy mistress hence: 
But mark my mandate, if by love inclin'd 
Thou dare to cast one hasty look behind, 
Ere day's blyth region burst upon thy sight, 
That moment shall thy expectation blight, 
Again shall death, with his unerring dart, 
Transfix the lovely tenant of thy heart.' 
With bounding step th' enraptur'd bard proceeds 
Through roseate bowers, and aromatic meads ; 
Nor can th' immortal mansions of the blest 
Excite his wonder, and his speed arrest. 



25 

As thou returnest to the realms of day- 
Let sober reason mad impatience stay, 
Warn thee to stem affection's forceful tide, 
And snatch no glimpse of thy recover'd bride, 
A little while thy fond regard restrain, 
Thou soon shalt clasp her on thy native plain; 
Ah ! yet a short delay, enamour'd swain ! 
Oh, wisdom., prudence, foresight, empty names, 
When beauty dazzles, and when love inflames ! 
He turns to gaze : alas ! i]l-fated maid., 
Chill'd by that look, her brilliant colours fade* 
Her eyes grow languid \ to her lover's moans 
She feebly utters incoherent tones, 
She faints, she dies 5 again her spirit roves 
With peaceful shadows in th' Elysian groves. 
Intemperate man ! so shortly to destroy 
Thy late renown, thy hopes of future joy. 
In stupid grief by Strymon's bank he sate, 
Imploring Jove, and imprecating fate; 
And slowly pacing by the babbling flood, 
Or sad and pensive in the lonely wood, 
He pass'd his mournful days, and restless nights, 
Averse from Venus, and her soft delights. 



26 

Stung with neglect, th' indignant maids of Thrace 
Conspire his fall to cancel their disgrace. 
By them, while frantic orgies fire their brain 
With maddening rage, th' obnoxious youth is slain. 
Whilst dying pangs convulse his mangled frame 
Eurydice his quivering lips exclaim, 
His love he murmurs with his latest breath, 
Still present to him in the pangs of death. 

The umpires, by despotic power unaw'd, 
The poet's animated strain applaud. 
Then round his brow the laurel wreath they twine, 
The fatal gift that deems his verse divine. 
Imperial pride, unus'd to bear the pain 
Of hope, by rival merit, render'd vain, 
With blood its savage thirst of vengeance fed, 
And held a puny triumph o'er the dead. 
To wreaths since tyrants claim prescriptive right, 
They should be form'd of hateful aconite. 
No sacred bay, no myrtle's lively green, 
Weav'd in their chaplet, should be ever seen ; 
But foul and noxious weeds should bind their hair, 
Ill-omen'd plants, the symbols of despair. 



CANTO III 



ARGUMENT. 

Reflections.— Dante driven from Florence by popular injustice. 
Petrarch, harmony, tenderness, and delicacy of his poetry. 
Tasso, his Aminta and Jerusalem delivered, his misfor- 
tunes, coronation at Rome, and unhappy state of his mind. 
Comeille, his tragic powers, his merit unrewarded. 



29 



CANTO III. 



Saturnian period, so unlike our own, 
Perhaps in dreaming fancy only known, 
Wouldst thou revisit earth, how vast a change, 
A revolution how dispers'd and strange, 
Thy presence would occasion ! He, whose claim 
To power and merit is an ancient name, 
Who boasts the lineal right to look with scorn 
On fellow-creatures not so highly born, 
Should learn his rights, that such respect obtain, 
Are empty titles, and distinctions vain. 
He, who now grasps his glittering heaps of gold 
With niggard caution, and with palsied hold, 
Should then his heart enlarge, unclench his hand, 
And scatter plenty o'er the pining land. 
Him novel ecstasy, and pleasures pure, 
Celestial charity should then secure, 



30 

Teach him o'er others' happiness to brood, 
And taste the luxury of doing good. 
Then should neglected genius rear his head, 
And quit his tatter'd garb, and lowly shed, 
Nor meanly lavish incense to engage 
Disgraceful aid, and futile patronage, 
Nor tamely prostitute his muse to paint 
That mortal a philanthropist, and saint, 
Whom satire would exhibit to our sight 
In form that shocks, in colours that affright 
No more the slave of mendicating need, 
Diviner thoughts his chasten'd mind should feed, 
Teach him to rise above the base controul 
Of servile fear, and littleness of soul, 
Esteem his praise beyond the lure of price, 
Presented by the gilded hand of vice. 
But vain the wish : to time's remotest day 
To wealth shall genius adulation pay, 
The noblest talents of the mind debase 
To daub his patron with fictitious grace, 
And trick him out with all that man adorns 
To wring a pittance from the wretch he scorns. 



31 

O Dante ! did the energy divine 
That animates thy verse, embellish mine, 
Then would I glory folly to confound, 
And daring sin to humble to the ground, 
Ingenuous merit to bring forth to view, 
And strip its semblance crafty, and untrue. 
Florence gave pious Dante birth : allied 
To families of ancient name, and pride, 
He soon eclips'd the honours of his race, 
And rais'd the glory of his native place. 
Cimmerian darkness o'er his country spread 
Contempt of law, and thirst of rapine bred. 
Insulted science wept her lost command, 
And frantic anarchy convuls'd the land. 
But his vast genius piercd this cloud of night, 
And singly shone with no imperfect light. 
His theme important, terrible, and grand, 
Displays the touches of a master's hand. 
His stern invectives ring upon the ear, 
And guilty bosoms tremble as they hear. 
But his seraphic strain breathes peace to those 
Whose conscience rests in innocent repose, 



32 

Paints their serene delight that never cloys, 

Divine vocations, and immortal joys. 

To poesy alone were not confin'd 

The many virtues of his vigorous mind. 

Elected by a sturdy people's will 

A trust of high importance to fulfil, 

His sage discernment, and directing hand, 

Confirm'd his right to counsel and command. 

But who, although his character be pure, 

From democratic frenzy is secure ? 

Where'er the fiend, with active fury, treads 

She mournful waste, and fell disaster spreads, 

Contemns all order, and confounds all sects, 

Nor reverences laws, nor faith respects. 

Though Dante ne'er by faction's voice was rul'd, 

Nor by ambition s glittering visions fool'd, 

Malignity his every act pursued, 

Impell'd by popular ingratitude. 

A wanderer from his home, a foreign soil 

Gave an obscure asylum to his toil, 

And when he died, to his renown unjust, 

Mix'd with the common herd his sacred dust. 



33 

But scarcely on his grave's neglected sod, 
With heedless step, the passenger had trod, 
When Petrarch to the admiring world display'd 
The power of love by verse's magic aid. 
As the west breeze with playful pinion roves 
O'er verdant meadows, and through rustling groves, 
His passion mildly murmurs, and complains 
Of adverse fortune, and of lovers' pains. 
So true his manner, and so soft his tone, 
The reader makes the sufferer's grief his own. 
Laura, on thee, with rapturous soul, he gaz'd, 
And never from his bosom was eras'd 
The firm impression which thy presence made : 
He sang thy praises to the silent shade, 
The murmuring fountain, the sequester'd grot, 
And immortality's thy happy lot. 
Beauty awhile, with animated dye, 
May warm the passions, and allure the eye, 
But soon its brilliant colours shall decay, 
As night obscures the sunshine of the day, 
Unless the bard with happy effort save 
The mouldering features from the silent grave. 

p 



34 

Thus, though three thousand years have disappear'd 

Since Priam's state its lofty turrets rear'd, 

Bright as in life, in Homer's lines, are seen 

The fatal charms of Menelaus' queen. 

Enshrin'd in Petrarch's sonnets undecay'd 

Still Laura's bashful beauties are display'd; 

In Dryden's lays the world shall ever view 

The form of all-accomplish' d Killigrewj 

And ne'er shall time, with envious rage, impair 

Belinda's bloom, and features heavenly fair, 

Secure eternal homage to engage, 

A lovely nymph in Pope's descriptive page. 

So Egypt's curious art preserv'd the dead, 

With aromatic herbs, in stone and lead, 

And still embalm'd exhibits to mankind 

The stately sovereign, and the lowly hind. 

But though the limpid fountain of Vaucluse 

In soft responses echoed Petrarch's muse, 

Yet, when insulted virtue call'd for aid, 

And satire's hardy genius, undismay'd 

He rose her willing champion. At his frown 

Proud potentates, and chiefs, of high renown, 



35 

Bow'd with meek patience, and submissive awe. 

His mind, the friend of reasonable law, 

Beheld, with deep disdain, his native clime 

Fruitful in woe, and nurse of every crime. 

Rome, once th' acknowledgd mistress of the world, 

From her imperial dominion hurl'd, 

A numerous horde of petty tyrants brav'd, 

By turns caress'd, insulted, and enslav'd. 

Each, chieftain of a bold ferocious band, 

His forts erected, and his projects pland, 

Forth issued, like assassins from their den, 

To pillage property, and prey on men. 

But in the circle of Rome's vast extent 

Had sense of honour not been wholly spent, 

Her injur'd children Petrarch had inspir'd, 

To fame awak'd, to speedy vengeance fir'd, 

Conducted them, inflam'd with martial heat, 

Against their tyrants' fortified retreat, 

Their insolent oppressors to confound, 

And raze their boasted bulwarks to the ground. 

But vainly he address'd an abject race 

Who bondage deem'd supportable disgrace, . . 



36 

Too cowardly their galling ills to check, 

Beneath the yoke they tamely bent their neck, 

A lost community, and slavish throng, 

In spite of virtue's voice, and Petrarch's song. 

But turning from the prospect, with disgust, 

Of human nature to herself unjust, 

I love to dwell upon the sylvan scene, 

The flowery meadows, and the alleys green, 

The simple manners of the shepherd train, 

Partake their pleasures, and divide their pain. 

Aminta's griefs my tender pity move 

As he complains of unsuccessful love. 

I hear his sighs, I see his frantic air, 

Rack'd by the cruel torment of despair 5 

Whilst Sylvia's scorn of one who loves so well 

Makes every heart against her power rebel, 

Renounce its homage, hush its fond alarms, 

The certain consequence of haughty charms. 

With what nice shades does Tasso's pencil trace 

The various passions of the human race. 

His pastoral records, in Doric strain, 

The wood-nymph's pride, the shepherd's amorous pain, 



37 

His aims defeated, and his joys o'ercast, 

But subtle love triumphant at the last. 

In epic measure he sublimely sings 

The strife of heroes, and the fall of kings, 

The holy city freed from impious powers, 

And Christian banners planted on her towers. 

The cause that bids the western nations arm 

Is no light feud, nor impotent alarm; 

No thirst of vengeance, no desire of spoil 

Impels their courage, and supports their toil, 

But in their breast religion's power prevails, 

A power which, purely felt, but rarely fails, 

Which ever must a confidence create, 

The certain guide to all that's good, and great. 

Let threatening Egypt join her swarthy bands 

To Lybia's sons, and march to Syria's lands, 

Oppos'd to squadrons that for glory fight, 

For future glory more than present right, 

Their vaunting pride, to sure destruction leads, 

Presumption perishes, and faith succeeds. 

But whilst the author's fame was widely spread, 

Tempestuous clouds were gathering o'er his head -, 



38 

His little bark, of winds and waves the sport, 
No pilot found to guide it into port. 
Let Rome select him from the tuneful few, 
To him decree the poet's chaplet due, 
Too late the vain distinction is conferred, 
Her favours useless, and her praise unheard ! 
Can the disgusted mind, by grief weigh'd down, 
Pant for the puerile clamour of renown ? 
Can stately pomp, and folly's idle train, 
Restore to reason the distemper'd brain ? 
Ah ! sad for genius from his brilliant throne 
To fall, divested of his lofty tone, 
To lose those talents that his fame acquir'd, 
Forget those feelings that his voice inspir'd, 
From all his grand vocations to withdraw, 
To blow a feather, or to twirl a straw. 
Alike esteeming fortune's frown, or smile, 
The just who praise, the envious who revile, 
He views, with vacant eye, the passing scenes, 
Unconscious what the gay procession means. 
So when the vessels of usurping Spain 
Their canvass swell'd on the Peruvian main. 



39 

The simple Indians, from their peaceful shore, 
Gaz'd at the ships which their destruction bore 5 
Their mind, bewilder'd by the strange event, 
Could not unravel what the wonders meant. 

How movingly the muse, in Corneille's strains, 
With wildness raves, with melody complains ! 
There speaks the patriot, there the fair-one pleads, 
In diction worthy of their noble deeds. 
When fair Ximena's tender plaints express 
The pangs of love, the anguish of distress, 
What ear rejects, what callous heart disowns, 
The strong appeal of her persuasive tones ? 
Her tortur'd breast what different interests share ! 
What calls embarrass, and what passions tear! 
For ancient story, or fictitious woe, 
Our sighs we heave, and sympathy bestow , 
Whilst he, upon whose interesting tale 
We dwell with trembling heart, and visage pale, 
Stretch'd on his couch of squalid misery lies, 
And wakes no interest, and bedews no eyes. 
Oh ! shall our ready tears alone be shed 
For fancied sufferings, and for heroes dead, 



40 



And when we see the noble mind oppress'd, 
Adorn'd with wisdom, and with virtue bless'd* 
Shall we his feelings wound, his woes deride, 
With cold compassion, and contemptuous pride ? 



CANTO IV. 



ARGUMENT. 

Spenser, charms of his muse; illiberality of Cecil. Otway, 
his indigence, and miserable end. Chatterton, his youth, 
genius, despair, and death. Conclusion. 



43 



CANTO IV. 



Let others wander o'er Europa's clime, 

On Asia's flowery plains consume their time, 

Urg'd by attractive novelty, explore 

The wilds and wonders of Columbia's shore, 

Or Africa's uncultur'd region trace, 

The horrid nurse of many a savage race ! 

Tis my delight in fairy land to roam, 

And claim acquaintance with the sylph, and gnome. 

I love to dwell upon the generous knight, 

The firm avenger of a nations right, 

The tyrant's tamer 5 ever prompt to aid 

The friendless orphan, and insulted maid, 

To tasks of toil, and danger to aspire 

Without the slavish recompence of hire, 

Spenser! to thy creative muse we owe 



44 

The dancing joys that fancy's brightest glow 

Can on susceptibility bestow. 

When false Acrasia, Guy on' s virtue tempts 

With dazzling lures, and soothing blandishments, 

Who would not listen to her syren strains 

And feel soft pleasure revel in his veins ? 

Ah ! few, who such luxurious scenes explore, 

Again would battle on a distant shore, 

Willing to barter their oppressive arms 

For light amusements, and for beauty's charms. 

Who, when the gallant Arthur singly stands 

To brave the fury of embattled bands, 

To curb ferocity, to humble pride, 

But feels a wish to combat on his side ? 

O ! that a bard, who could so well inspire 

Or tender sympathy, or martial fire, 

Should find of no avail the muses' art 

To raise compassion in the proud man's heart. 

Cecil! no pure applause, no honest fame, 

To future ages shall exalt thy name. 

To thee, although thy gorgeous tomb of state 

Proclaim thee once benevolent, and great; 



ii 

No muse shall raise her voluntary strain 
And bid thy transient glory bloom again. 
Awhile may artful adulation spread 
A flow'ry wreath around the living head, 
But rigid justice waits upon the dead. 

Tis said the Thracian minstrel could appease 
The savage beasts, and calm the roaring seas 
By verse's wondrous power: past is that time 
When senseless things rever'd the sons of rhyme. 
From Erin's craggy shore the vessel sails, 
Her sheets expanded with deceitful gales. 
To the rude elements the bard consign'd 
The tuneful treasures of his lofty mind. 
Great is the trust committed to your care ; 
Ye winds and waves ! the rich deposit spare. 
Pent in your caves ye blustering tempests sleep! 
Ye playful breezes murmur o'er the deep ! 
Oh ! bark, selected by malignant fate, 
To bear the shock of her severest hate, 
What though the hoards of Holland had been thine, 
Or sparkling product of Potosi's mine ! 



46 

Or fragrant woods, and spicy gums, possess'd 

By fruitful Ind, or Araby the bless'd ! 

Few would have sorrow'd for thy hapless lot, 

Shortly repair'd, and speedily forgot. 

But now shall all thy fatal loss deplore, 

Till poesy delight the soul no more, 

Till Gothic clouds again the world o'erspread, 

And taste, and science, slumber with the dead, 

O Otway ! cast in nature's softest mould> 
Thy moving verse this story should have told. 
For thee approving times a wreath have made 
Which envy's withering breath shall never fade. 
For soon the fame, to true desert allied, 
Though power oppress it, and though wealth deride, 
Shall burst its vile impediments, and rise, 
Cleans d from contagious slander, to the skies, 
As the young phenix from its ashes springs, 
With eyes more sparkling, and with brighter wings. 
Though mild Monimia can inspire the rake 
The path of vice, and folly, to forsake, 
To loath the savage who, for sensual joys 
Which conscience mars, satiety destroys, 



47 

Marks innocence his unsuspecting prey, 

And strews with painful thorns her flowery way ! 

Though down the cheek the pearly tribute steals 

When Belvidera to the heart appeals, 

And overflowing sympathy supplies 

That pity her unfeeling sire denies ! 

No friend their poet found to sooth his care 

And check the moody madness of despair. 

And if awhile relenting fortune clad 

Her sullen brow in smiles serene, and glad, 

He dar'd not her deceitful promise trust, 

So often empty, and so seldom just. 

By harsh experience tutor d, which destroys 

The youthful prospect of continued joys, 

He deem'd her promises deluding dreams, 

And saw the gloom that lurk'd beneath her beams. 

In deep distress he linger'd out his days, 

No bliss but verse, no recompence but praise ; 

And in a country, to whose rocky shores 

Propitious commerce wafts her richest stores, 

Oh grief to think ! oh infamy to tell ! 

To houseless want a wretched victim fell. 



48 



But see where youthful Chatterton appears, 
Sublime his brow, and wise beyond his years ! 
Upon his birth poetic genius smil'd, 
And fancy hail'd him as her lovliest child. 
But soon his ardent hopes were doom'd to fade, 
By care, neglect, and poverty dismay'd. 
He saw successful villany rever'd, 
Unprosperous merit stigmatiz'd, and jeer'd, 
Spurn'd by the selfish patron of the day, 
Or ask'd a price that honour could not pay. 
I fain, O bard ! thy memory would defend, 
And draw a veil o'er thy disastrous end. 
When angry passions rankled in thy soul 
O ! hadst thou felt religion's blest controul, 
Thou wouldst have learnt thy fleeting ills to bear, 
And shun'd the excess of criminal despair j 
On better prospects turn'd thy canker'd mind, 
And been though hapless, patient, and resign d. 
Of hope bereft, by sullen spleen devour' d, 
And the dark frown of disappointment sour'd^ 
With frantic gesture, and distemper'd soul, 
He lifted to his lips the fatal bowl. 



49 

The subtile poison searches every vein, 
Burns in his bosom, maddens in his brain, 
O'er all his frame with piercing pangs prevails, 
And his heart sickens, and his vision fails ! 
Tortur'd with pain, and harrow'd with remorse, 
He direly ends his short but brilliant course. 
So through th' expansive azure of the skies, 
Array' d in starry vest, the comet iiies ; 
But soon its beautiful effulgence fades, 
Plung'd in the depth of night's eternal shades. 
Ye lofty bards! whose undeserved distress 
Has mov'd my muse her feelings to express, 
Whose charm of diction, energy of thought, 
Through the sad progress of my lays I've sought 5 
If no success my zealous effort crown, 
And clouds obscure the prospect of renown, 
Your honour' d names shall partial favour gain. 
Avert reproach, and vindicate my strain. 



51 



NOTES. 

Page 4, line 21. 

To strip the body of its shining mail. 

The ancients deemed it highly dishonourable to for- 
sake the dead bodies of their friends, and fellow- 
soldiers. Hence the desperate struggles to carry off 
those who fell in battle. When the gallant Leonidas 
devoted himself at Thermopylae, the contest fiercely 
raged round the fallen hero 5 and Abrocomes and 
Hyperanthes, valiant brothers of a dastardly king, 
were slain in their rash attempt to seize the breath- 
less remains of the Spartan chief. 



52 

Page 23, line 13. 
Love tun'd his verse, and Orpheus was his theme. 

Herodotus was of opinion that Orpheus was the 
disciple of Linus. The history of these poets is 
involved in great obscurity. Linus was reputed 
the son of Apollo and Terpsichore. There are no 
less than five epic poets of the name of Orpheus, of 
whose works not a trace remains. The Thracian bard 
is the most celebrated. He is said to have flourished 
a thousand years before the Trojan war. The myste- 
rious rites of the Pagan religion are the subject of his 
poetry, and miraculous stories are told of the sublimity 
of his muse, and the harmony of his lyre. 

Page 23, line 17. 
The lovely mistress of his heart was torn. 

Marino, whose pedantry and conceit are so of- 
fensive to every reader who has a taste for genuine 



poetry, describes with some spirit the death of Eury- 
dice. 

Sollevando del capo 

Le sanguinose creste, innanellando 

In squallid' orbi il flessuoso corpo, 

E con la coda aguzza 

Sferzando l'herbe, incontr'a lei si mossej 

Per mille obliqui strisci, aspe pungente. 

Ardean di foco e sangue 

Le nere luci horribilmente infette; 

Da la bocca spumante 

Uscia fischio e veleno, onde facea 

Ne' suoi lividi tratti intorno intorno 

D'atra nebbia e mortal fumar la via, 

e da la lingua 
Morbo scoccando e morte, 
Nel bianco piede ignudo 
De la fanciulla fuggitiva e scalza 
Con tenace puntura il dente impresse, 
E vomito su la ferita il fiele. 
La sbigotita donna, 
Pallida come giglio 
Da vomere, 6 da piede 
O reciso, o calcato, 
Sovra rherbe cader ratto si lascia. 
Repentina caligine i begli occhi 
Offusca, e chiude in grave sonno eterno : 



54 

Perde il chiaro del giorno, e dalla luce 

De la vita serena 

Irreparabilmente 

Scende a l'ombre di Stige ombra dolente. 



Page 31, line £. 
Florence gave pious Dante birth. 

Dante was born A. D. 12(55, soon after the re- 
turn of the Guelphs to Florence. If we consider the 
Gothic ignorance of the age, the violence of party, 
and the prevalence of superstition, we must view, 
with astonishment and delight, the many elegant and 
sublime passages which his poems continually present, 
the enlarged notions of his mind, and the boldness, 
and liberality, of his religious opinions. 

Page 32, line (5. 
A trust of high importance to fulfil. 

Dante was raised to the priorship of Florence in 
those troublesome times when that city was distracted 



55 

by the black and white factions. Charles of Valois, 
of the royal blood of France, was deputed by pope 
Boniface VIII. to compose these disturbances. He 
leaned towards the black faction, and Dante, who was 
supposed to view the other party with a favourable 
eye, was condemned to have his house razed, and his 
effects confiscated 5 and he himself, though on an em- 
bassy to the pope, was declared to be in a state of 
exile. 

Page 33, line 3. 

When Petrarch to th' admiring world display'd 
The power of love. 

Petrarch was born at Arezzo A. D. 1304, and died 
at Padua 1374. The first characters and greatest po- 
tentates of the age were ambitious of his friendship. 
He was intimately connected with popes Clement VI 
and Urban V, John Visconti prince of Milan, Robert 
the virtuous king of Naples (the father of the in- 
famous Joan), Andre Dandolo, and Laurence Celso, 
illustrious doges of Venice, and Rienzi, the celebrated 



56 



tribune of Rome, whose spirit, patriotism, and wise 
institutions, were the subject of his warm encomium, 
but whose apostacy, folly, and tyranny, soon lost him 
the admiration which his virtues had deservedly ob- 
tained* When the account of his mad freaks, and 
silly vanity first reached Petrarch, at Avignon, after a 
letter to the fallen hero of advice and exhortation, he 
says, e I was preparing to write an ode in your praise 5 
take care that your conduct does not compel me to 
make your ignominy the subject of my verse.' Though 
Petrarch passed the greater part of his life at Avignon, 
whither the popes had transferred the papal chair, 
John XXII, Benedict XII, and Innocent XI, severely 
smarted under the lash of his satire. Their venality, 
luxuriousness, pride, and idle controversies, furnished 
ample matter for his hardy invectives. As a proof of 
the ascendancy which his genius had acquired, these 
mitred chiefs, notwithstanding they dreaded his re- 
publican spirit, and satirical pen, admired, esteemed, 
and courted him. But his independent mind rejected 
their advances, and continued to lament their dege- 
neracy, and stigmatize their vicss. — He first saw Laura 



57 

in 132/ (in the eighteenth year of her age) and con- 
ceived so deep-rooted a passion for her, that his love 
continued undiminished, not only for the remai 
twenty years of her life, but for a considerable period 
after her death. To her he consecrated his muse, 
and celebrated her charms, her virtue, and her cruelty, 
in numerous songs and sonnets, which breathe the 
genuine spirit of love, and poetry. Her person was 
beautiful, her manners graceful, her conduct irre- 
proachable : but the amiableness of her character, and 
the purity of her heart, have not protected her from 
the lash of the censorious, and the insinuations of the 
witty. The elegant and poetical madame Deshou- 
liers, in the following pretty lines, thus expresses her 
suspicions : 

Oui cette vive source, en rcuiant sur ces bords, 

Semble nous raconter les tourmeus, les transports, 

Que Petrarque sentoit pour la divine Laure. 

11 exprima si bien sa peine, son ardeur, 

Que Laure, malgre sa rigeur, 

L'ecouta, plaignit sa langeur, 

Et fit peut-etre plus encore. 



58 

Any of my readers who wishes for a full account of 
Petrarch's life may consult the Abbe de Sade's inte- 
resting memoirs of that great poet, which are replete 
with entertaining anecdote, and sensible observation. 
Its method is singular and admirable. Succeeding 
biographers have attempted to imitate it, but, not 
possessing the happy talent of their master, they pre- 
sent but feeble copies of the agreeable manner, and 
judicious arrangement, of the original. 



Page 34, line 1 7. 

But though the limpid fountain of Vaucluse. 

A French poet gives the following description of 
that celebrated fountain : 

La parmi des rocs entasses, 
Couverts d'une mousse verdatre 
S'eiancent des flots courrouces 
D'une ecume blanche et bleuatre. 
La chute et le mugissement 
De ces ondes precipitees 
Des mers par l'orage irritees 
Imitent le fremissement ; 



59 

Mais bientot moins tumultueuse, 
Et s'adoucissant a nos yeux, 
Cette fontaine merveilleuse 
N'est plus un torrent furieux; 
Le long des campagnes fleuries, 
Sur le sable et sur les cailloux, 
Elle caresse les prairies 
Avec un murmure plus doux. 
Alors elle soufFre sans peine, 
Que mille differens canaux 
Divisent au loin dans la plaine 
Le tresor fecond de ses eaux. 
Son onde toujours epuiee, 
Arrosant la terre alte'ree 
Va fertiliser les sillons. 



60 



A FRAGMENT. 



The rosy morn, in eastern pomp adorn'd, 
Had chas'd the elves from off the dewy lawn, 
Where oft they revel when the bashful moon 
To nightly travellers unveils her beams. 
The purple floods of light the valiant youth 
To hardy toil, and generous cares, awoke. 
In grace, and strength, and manly dignity, 
He rose conspicuous ; pendent from his side, 
By golden links attach'd, his faulchion frown'd. 
A slender mail his ample breast embrac'd. 
On his left arm a polish'd shield was hung, 
On which the actions of the sons of fame 
With mimic art so finely were portray'd, 
That the mistaking eye would deem them true. 
Accoutred thus the brave adventurer march'd. 
Not far he had proceeded when he heard 



6i 

A gentle symphony, like western winds 

That feebly murmur in a low-roof 'd cave. 

Each breath of zephyr wafted to his ear 

A clearer melody, and soon the sound 

So near approach'd, that he could well discern 

The notes of human voices, but so sweet 

They might contend with angels' holy chant. 

Then suddenly, as playful fays appear,, 

Before his eyes a young and brilliant troop 

Of virgins stood. Their garments, white as snow, 

Denoted well their minds' simplicity. 

Their hair, that rivall'd the transparent hue, 

Which gilds the mountain when a summer's morn 

Bursts with effulgence from the rosy east, 

In glossy tresses hung, neglecting art. 

And now, their lily hands together join'd, 

They all in graceful unison advanc'd 

To form a circle round the favour'd youth. 

And lightly pressing the enamell'd plain 

That tender flower, or herb could scarcely feel 

Their fairy touch, three sprightly rounds they danc'd, 

Filling the air with notes of harmony: 



62 

Then, low inclining their angelic forms, 

With beaming eyes, and animated lips, 

They cried all hail, and vanish'd from his sight. 

And now Alphonso on his course proceeds, 

And long had travers'd o'er the barren heath, 

The sandy plain, and nodding precipice, 

With patient feet, when open'd to his view 

A prospect lovely, spacious, and sublime. 

Towards the east there rose a ridge of hills 

Upon whose summit the majestic oak, 

The graceful cedar, and umbrageous beech, 

Courted the breath of the unfettered wind. 

Far to the south vast rocks, whose craggy tops 

Were overgrown with briars, and round whose sides 

The mantling ivy clung with close embrace, 

Rear'd their enormous bulks in rudest forms. 

Their threatening aspect, and fantastic shape, 

Form' d a strong contrast to the softer views 5 

Diversity more pleasing to the eye 

Than if the scene, unbroken and unchanged, 

Had all along preserved its symmetry. 

Impetuous streams, and roaring cataracts, 



63 



Discharg'd their fury from the rugged cliffs, 

And, excavated on the beaten earth 

A spacious bason, on whose clear expanse 

The noisy torrent foaming, rais'd a spray 

Of silver fluid, bright as vernal showers 

That softly fall, translucent with the sun. 

The weighty bodies of these various streams 

Thus all collected in one reservoir, 

Exuberantly fill'd the bounded space, 

And bursting from its incapacious hold, 

They fertiliz'd the neighbouring meads and fields, 

And brought their tribute to a stately river 

Which on the north roll'd on its limpid waves 

With tardy current, and meandering mazes. 

Wide to the west th' unbounded prospect lay: 

No obstacle that could prevent the sight 

From measuring the fulness of its powers. 

Not long these views, with various wonders rich, 

Had given his eyes a sumptuous festival 

When, anxious his vocation to fulfil, 

He journey 'd on unmindful of the toil. 

At length he reached a vast extensive plain 



64 

Where he beheld a lofty edifice, 

Of gloomy aspect, and enormous bulk. 

Its Gothic pride disdain'd the forming rules 

Of Grecian architecture : like a rock, 

Rough with a thousand points, it towering stood -, 

And here and there a dismal cavity, 

Cross' d with thick bars, let in a niggard light. 

As he drew near the pile, a hollow sound, 

Of woe expressive, dwelt upon his ear. 

With hasty step the prison he approach'd; 

When suddenly a numerous well-arm'd troop 

Rush'd from the gates, and with tumultuous shouts 

Assail'd the knight in circular array. 

But, long inur'd to deeds of hardihood, 

He met, unmov'd, their desultory rage. 

His arm, the faithful agent of his heart, 

Dealt round its deadly blows 5 though many fell 

Still the fierce throng around his person press'd, 

To tame his valour, or exhaust his strength, 

By dint of numbers, and renewed assaults. 

But he, with godlike capability, 

Uepeli'd the torrent of their boisterous ire, 



65 

And forc'd the sturdy ruffians to recoil. 
So the rude whirlwind, upon Lybian sands, 
Wheeling in air its burning particles, 
In columns vast, velocious, and compact, 
Bears down whatever would oppose its course, 
And stem the fury of its ravages. 



CECCOS COMPLAINT. 



TRANSLATED FROM 



IL LAMENTO DI CECCO DA VARLUNGO 



FRANCESCO BALDOFINI. 



69 



PRE FACE. 



It is well known, to every person conversant with 
Italian literature, that the peasants of Tuscany have 
always possessed a language peculiar to themselves, 
distinguished from that used in the city, by its expres- 
sive vulgarity, and extravagant mutilations. Boccac- 
cio, the earliest and purest prose writer of modern 
Italy, has left an example of this provincial dialect in 
his second novel of the eighth day, in the person of 
Bentivegna del Mazzo. The Florentine poets, capti- 
vated with the arch simplicity of the rustic style, in- 
vented a singular and pleasing kind of poetry which 
they termed rusticale or contadinesca. Among the 
first who excelled in it were Lorenzo De' Medici, 
called the magnificent, in his stanzas entitled La Nen- 
cia da Barberino, and Luigi Pulci, his cotemporary 
and rival, the celebrated author of Morgante Mag- 



70 

giore. In process of time, Francesco Bernr, in La 
Catrina, Gabbriello Simeoni, Alessandro Allegri, Ma- 
latesti, and above all, Michelagnolo Buonarrnoti the 
younger, in his famous rustic comedy of La Tancia, 
greatly improved upon their predecessors. Lorenzo 
Lippi, in the eighth and tenth cantos of his Malman- 
tile, and Forteguerri, in the twelfth canto of Ricciar- 
detto, gave samples of their skill in this species of 
composition. But their performances were excelled, 
and their fame eclipsed, by Francesco Baldovini, au- 
thor of II Lamento di Cecco da Varlungo. The first 
correct edition of this admirable poem was published 
by his friend II Marchese Mattias De' Bartolommei, 
in Florence, A. D. l6g4. Several years before this 
period it had been imperfectly printed at different 
presses. The holy pursuits in which the author was 
engaged appear to have dismissed the memory of this 
juvenile composition from his thoughts, and had it not 
been for the friendly zeal of Bartolommei (who ob- 
tained the manuscript of it from Baldovini) it, per- 
haps, would never have been rescued from the bar- 
barisms and inaccuracies which disfigured and dis- 



71 

graced it. On its first appearance it was eagerly read, 
and warmly applauded. It was not only admired by 
the uneducated peasant, but by men eminent for their 
abilities, and erudition. The learned Ludovico Mura- 
tori, in his note on the sixty- fourth sonnet of Petrarch, 
calls it ' molto vaga cosa nel genere suo,' and Antom- 
maria Salvini in his comments on the Fiera e Poemetto 
veramente nel suo genere perfetto.' Marco Crescim- 
beni, Xaverio Quadrio, and many other literary cha- 
racters, men don this graceful idyl in terms of honour- 
able commendation. A complete and elegant edition 
of this interesting poem was published at Florence, 
in 1 /55 } with the author's life, by Domenico Maria 
Manni, and ample and curious notes by Orazio 
Marini. 

Francesco Baldovini was born at Florence, A. D. 
]634. His family was noble but poor. Their slender 
patrimony, and the place of his birth, he alludes to in 
one of his poetical compositions. 

Nel bel paese, ovc V Etrusca Flora 
Del' Arno i fiutti in scntier dritto aduna, 



72 

Videro i lumi miei la prima aurora. 
Non mi dieder le stelle eccelsa cuna 
Ma in comoda magion lieta m* accolse 
Non alta, e non del tutto umil fortuna. 

In his tender years he was placed in the college of 
S. Giovannino, under the care of father Vincenzio 
Glario da Tivoli, many of whose scholars have done 
honour to their master by their literary productions. 
Under his tuition he was instructed in the classics, 
and imbibed his taste for oratory, and poetry. But, as- 
sociating himself with a set of riotous and unprincipled 
young mem he neglected these elegant pursuits, and 
spent his time in idleness and dissipation. His father, 
unable otherwise to detach him from his profligate 
companions, sent him to the university of Pisa, where, 
when he had for some time prosecuted his studies, he 
obtained his doctors degree in civil law. Shortly 
after he had the misfortune to lose both his parents. 
Upon this melancholy event Baldovini returned to his 
native country, and renouncing the dry study of the 
law, gave himself wholly up to the enchantment of 
poetry and music. But his amusements were not use- 



73 

less, nor his leisure unprofitable; for about this time 
he composed his beautiful idyl of II Lamento di Cecco 
da Varlungo. 

E allora fu, che in pastorali accenti 
Fei d' agreste zampogna in rozzo suono 
Di rustico amator noti i lamenti. 

Desirous of visiting Rome, he obtained, through 
the interest of his uncle Cardinal Flavio Chigi, the 
place of secretary to Cardinal Jacopo Filippo, in that 
city, where he resided nearly ten years, when, falling 
dangerously ill, he returned to the place of his birth 
for the benefit of his native air. When his health was 
re-established, he again went to reside at Rome, and 
attaching himself to the ecclesiastical life, he entered 
into holy orders in the fortieth year of his age. In 
1676 he obtained and took possession of the living of 
S. Leonardo d'Artimino, where he remained eighteen 
years, and in what manner he employed his time his 
own words inform us. 

Alle mie pecorelle esche \itali 
Andai porgendo, e a ritirarle attesi 



74 

Da quante ha il vizio in se mine e mali. 
In concordia a ridur gli animi offesi, 
Unii mie forze, e con salubri note 
Estinsi di furor gl' incendi accesi. 
In grembo a quelle baize erme, e remote 
A ognt mia vanita termin prefissi, 
E se d' aver vissuto alcun dir puote, 
Parmi sol poter dir, che ailor io vissi. 

In his solitude he acquired the favour of Cosmo 
the third, Grand Duke of Tuscany, who induced him 
to quit the tranquillity of Artimino for the bustle and 
gaiety of the Florentine court, and in 1694 he con- 
ferred upon him the priorship of Orbatello, which he 
resigned in \6gg, on being appointed to the priory and 
monastery of S. Felicita, vacant by the death of Ber- 
nardo di Cammillo Benvenuti, the famous genealogist. 
In the discharge of his new functions he gave equal 
satisfaction to the court, the religious orders, and his 
parishioners, by his exemplary piety, and his rigid at- 
tention to the duties of his station ; to which, the ami- 
ableness of his manners, his knowledge of the world, 
and proficiency in learning, rendered him perfectly 
adequate, He lived in prosperity and in health till 



75 

his eighty-second year, when the feebleness of age pre- 
vailing, he was unable to move without assistance. 
His infirmities increasing, he became so helpless and 
debilitated, that for some time before he died, he was 
obliged to keep to his bed. In this state he amused 
himself with relating to the young men, whom admi- 
ration of his talents, and respect for his virtues, in- 
duced to visit his sick apartment, the past occurrences 
of his life, accompanying his narrative with judicious 
comments, and friendly exhortation. He died full of 
years and of honours on the 18th Nov. in J/lfj. — His 
stature was lofty, his visage pale and meagre, his eyes 
remarkably lively. He wore, as was then the custom 
of the priests, short hair, long whiskers, and his beard 
unshaved on the point of his chin. His conversation 
was cheerful, his manners graceful and modest, and 
the writings which he has left will always remain a 
monument of his industry, and genius. 







.Zondon .Tublishcd as tiic Act directs , -April zj.S aS . 



77 



CECCO'S COMPLAINT. 

What time blyth May Varlungo's pleasant meads, 
On Arno's shore, in youthful green array'd, 
And on his fertile banks fresh herbs, and reeds. 
And dainty flowers their vivid tints display'd; 
A life of woe the shepherd Cecco leads, 
In vain pursuing a disdainful maid, 
And thus to Sandra, who derides his pains, 
In broken voice, and homely style, complains. 

How canst thou be so petulant to one 

Who loves thee more than he has words to speak? 

What, pretty minion ! have I ever done 

That all on me thou shouldst thy malice wreak? 

For as my love thou hast more deeply won 

My hopes to gain thee have become more weak: 

And when I strive thy company to share 

Thou fliest from me like the timid hare. 



78 

But fly 5 ana * l et thy course the wind exceed, 
I'll follow thee wherever be thy flight; 
Nor sea, nor mountain, should oppose my speed, 
Nor hell itself should hide thee from my sight; 
Its fiercest torments I should scarcely heed 
If thou wert by— -oh! then they would be light. 
In winter, and in summer, night, and day, 
Still at thy heels I'll loiter, come what may. 

Let the sun dazzle, or the thunder peal, 
I'll not depart, whatever shall betide 3 
In holy church, or at the rural reel, 
I will not stir a stone's- throw from thy side. 
When thou art near a heaven within I feel, 
When thou art far my life I can't abide; 
And if thou seek a swain who'll love like me, 
Thou seek'st in vain— no, no, it cannot be. 

Yet spite of all my faith, whene'er I meet thee, 
Proud is thy carriage, sullen are thine eyes. 
What have I done, nay, tell me, I entreat thee, 
That thou shouldst flout me, and my rivals prize? 



79 

Oh! Sandra, answer me, whene'er I greet thee, 
With milder aspect, and more comely guise ; 
Else from my anguish I shall ne'er recover, 
And thou wilt never have so true a lover. 

None wilt thou have, on this thou may'st rely, 

Nimbly to run thine errands, near and far, 

To cull thee flowers, and, when the evening's nigh, 

To trill thy praises on the sweet guitar. 

When harvest days the idle occupy, 

And man and boy and woman labouring are, 

None wilt thou find a ready hand to lend 

Thy beeves to water, and thy sheep to tend. 

Then smooth thy brow, and my complaining heed, 
Before my body's stretch'd upon the bier; 
To stocks and stones I might for pity plead 
As soon as thee — they have no deafer ear. 
Thou needst not banter me; indeed! indeed ! 
My words are gospel, and my death is near: 
Note my wan looks, that neither feign, nor flatter, 
And thou wilt own this is no jesting matter. 



80 

Yes, I am dying ! if I falsehood tell 
May I fall headlong down a craggy steep, 
May all my fields be bar'd by blights from hell, 
And troops of famish'd wolves devour my sheep. 
Yes ! thanks to thee, my looks declare too well 
My wasted strength, and melancholy deep. 
Oh ! turn to me, and, since I soon must die, 
Let me at least depart when thou art by. 

If memory's right, 'twas on Ascension-day 
When first I saw thee, Sandra, passing fair; 
Charm'd with the sight, I look'd my heart away, 
And fell at once into the pleasing snare. 
I was so dazzled at the bright display, 
My eyes gaz'd on thee with a gloating stare 5 
And from that time, alas ! I have not had 
A gleam of comfort my sick heart to glad. 

Now this I will not do, now that I will, 
I cannot finish aught I take in hand - 7 
I plough, and heed not whether well or ill, 
I dig a ditch, and in it hours I stand. 



for thee, who'rt pleas'd my bitter cup to fill, 
My wits have vanish'd, and my heart's unman'd : 
Sandra, for thee the live-long day I weep, 
And scarce at night can get a wink of sleep. 

I who, of late, scarce waited to hear grace 
Before my jug was void, and platter clean, 
Now at the table give my comrades place, 
To roam at large, and pine and pout unseen. 
My only joy is to admire thy face, 
Thy face so comely, and thy form so sheen: 
When such a pleasure is my senses treating, 
Let the deuce take all revelling and eating! 

Hard-hearted damsel ! luckless was the day 
When first thy witching company I knew, 
I felt a somewhat, what I could not say, 
Glow in my heart, and twinkle to my view j 
And staggering, reeling, this and t'other way, 
It seem'd as if a sword had run me through : 
From head to foot, like aspen-leaf, I shook, 
Strangely disorder'd by thy piercing look. 



82 

I stood confus'd, with pleasure, and with pain, 

A single word unable to deliver ; 

A sudden tremor throb'd in every vein, 

As if I had been plung'd into a river. 

And when I dar'd to meet thine eyes again, 

Which caus'd me so to kindle, and to shiver, 

Methought, so very pungent was the smart, 

A hornet's sting had stung me to the heart. 

Such fear assail'd me, when I felt the wound, 
It seem'd my soul would from my body sever ; 
Dim grew my eyesight, and my head turn'd round, 
I ne'er was in so sad a plight, no, never. 
Now cold, now hot, I found, or thought I found, 
That I was taken with a desperate fever ; 
And surely 'twas so, but so very keen 
That death itself a lighter ill had been. 

But hold 5 what boots it farther to relate, 
The case is this 3 if thou refuse my boon, 
And show no pity for my wretched state, 
My upset senses will be in the moon. 



83 

Thy friends, who witness my unhappy fate, 
Will tell thee that I must be raving soon: 
They know T take to heart thy taunts, and railing, 
And have my share of weeping, and of wailing. 

Before I saw thee I was fresh as May, 
But now my eyes are sunk, and colour lost, 
My youthful vigour fallen to decay, 
And my spare person's like a church -yard ghost. 
And yet, in spite of all that I can say, 
Thou'rt haid of hearing, Sandra, as a post; 
But thou wilt own, when in the grave I'm laid, 
I told the truth, thou'lt own it, cruel maid! 

In some rude wilderness, or barren plot, 

I verily believe that thou wast born, 

And bred upon some desolated spot, 

Chok'd up with loathsome nettle, furze, and thorn. 

Such pride and cruelty thy beauty blot, 

No mother's milk thou suck'dst or eve, or morn. 

But some fierce tygress was thy foster-dame, 

And all thy deeds thy growling nurse proclaim. 



84 

I hear that Nencio woos thee with success, 

And that thou think'st him handsomer than me, 

Because I'm poor, because I do not dress, 

At feasts and fairs, in such fine clothes as he. 

For shame! for shame! thou'lt. soon, with tears, confess 

Love in the heart, and not the purse to be. 

In me no fraud nor mean dissemblings are, 

My heart is honest though my coat is bare. 

But I have said enough — awhile I'll stay, 

And mark in silence how the matter goes j 

And when I am allow'd to have my way, 

A better-temper' d fellow no one knows. 

But if one set me on the fool to play, 

Or think to lead me tamely by the nose, 

Rage equal to the snarling dog I feel, 

Whose well-earn'd bone a sneaking cur would steal. 

Do not pretend I've maggots in my head, 
And to strange stories lend a greedy ear; 
For t'other day, when walking in the mead, 
I saw thee greet him with a kindly leer. 



85 . 

His baby face became as scarlet red 
When from thine eyes he had a glance so dear, 
And if thy brother had not held my staff, 
Zooks! he'd have had but little cause to laugh. 

Ah! think if I could cool and patient be 
Thus to detect him in his amorous rambles. 
Yes! thank thy brother for restraining me 
That in his skin thy sweetheart safely ambles. 
Fain might the loon have clamber d up a tree, 
Or burrow'd snugly in a clump of brambles j 
Had he had wings to take him to the moon, 
Such rage consumed me, I'd have found him soon. 

Sandra ! mark my words $ and what I say 
Is not thy temper and thy thoughts to try, 
If matters go not on a better way, 

1 tell thee that some mischiefs very nigh. 
Let me but meet that rival ! for the fray 
My fingers tingle, and my heart beats high : 
We then shall see who tells the truest tales, 
And Lord have mercy on the one that fails ! 



86 

No, no, I will make bold to boast of this, 
That youth shall never teach me how to woo, 
And if, in hopes to get a sugary kiss, 
He lurk about thee, shall his rashness rue. 
I'll answer for it that 1 11 never miss 
The artful fox, if once he come in view : 
He never shall, though cunning oft prevail, 
Escape my clutch without the loss of tail. 

But I will own he's not so much to blame, 
I can distinguish between truth and fable 5 
The leopard prowls not where there is no game, 
Who'd have no guests proclaims not open table. 
Which way I treat thee, Sandra, 'tis the same, 
Who'd have as many danglers as thou'rt able ,• 
1 love but thee alone, and thy pretension 
To many swains is past my comprehension. 

Sandra, discard him, and to me adhere, 
Whene'er he woos he titters in his sleeve : 
His sighs, which proof of perfect love appear, 
Not for thy charms, but for thy meadows, heave; 



8? 

Soon will his real character be clear, 
Old habits their possessor seldom leave: 
To many a nymph he is already known, 
And if thou credit him the fault's thy own. 

I'll give thee, hearken me, next Christmas-day, 
A gown so smart, and dazzling to the eye, 
That the astonish'd villagers shall say, 
' Look! look at Sandra!' as thou passest by. 
And always with me thou shalt have thy way, 
No whim I'll carp at, and no wish deny: 
If thou to Nencio wilt no love express, 
My all is thine, ay! all that I possess. 

I have a starling so completely tame 

He playfully will hop from hand to hand, 

With tongue so glib a thousand things he'll name, 

And say and do whate'er thou shalt command. 

And lately to my gin a leveret came 

Down in the moors that by my orchard stand, 

And I've so train'd him that he's daily fed 

From Rovers plate, and shares his strawy bed. 



88 

My lovely maid, to prove how dear thou art, 
These favourite pets to-morrow shall be thine; 
And with these presents I would send my heart, 
But well thou know'st it is no longer mine. 
Then I beseech thee act a kinder part, 
For I must ever in despondence pine, 
Till thou, whose taunts have almost turnd my brain, 
With smiles restore me to myself again. 

But for my gifts thou dost not care a pin, 
I know thou laugh'st at me for idly prating, 
And find too well the piteous state I'm in 
To thee's a matter far from being grating. 
Then let the prize thy worthy Nencio win ! 
I'll lose my time no more in tamely waiting : 
Let him securely boast himself thy slave, 
When I, perverse ! am mouldering in my grave. 

If certain omens which appear'd to me 
Should not prove false, that time is very nigh : 
This year I grafted a young cherry-tree, 
Whose fruit I hop'd would prosper by and by; 



S9 

But when I thought the blossoms fall to see, 
In less than in the twinkling of an eye, 
By the rude tempest, or the nipping frost, 
The stem was wither d, and my labour lost. 

Whilst I was hard a-working, here and there, 
Upon a neighbouring farm,, in sober mood, 
The kite, of which my mother wa nt aware, 
Made dreadful havoc with my chicken brood : 
And t'other day, in spite of all her care, 
The cackling hen he seiz'd, and made his food: 
And, to make all complete, my swarms of bees 
Have left their hives, and hang on Nencio's trees. 



I jingled keys and pans at such a rate, 

With fruitless hope, to coax them home again, 

For angrily they cluster'd round my pate, 

And stung me till I madden'd with the pain: 

And soon I had been in a woful state, 

If in a miry ditch I had not Jain; 

Such numbers clung about me I believe 

My skin would soon have been a very sieve. 



90 

Besides ; my bullock, and I ne'er again 
Shall get so good a one, so stout, and sound, 
To draw the share, and turn the stubborn plain, 
Down a steep precipice was seen to bound $ 
And also I without my ass remain, 
For he within a ditch was lately drown'd : 
What else is wanting, what can now betide, 
But of itself my grave to open wide ? 

But such misfortunes I should never mind, 
No, not a tittle, if thou held me dear ; 
My heart at ease, I then should be inclin'd 
To gibe and whistle at what now I fear. 
But since thou art so scornful, and unkind, 
These black forebodings thunder in my ear, 
c Why, foolish Cecco, dost thou here remain ? 
€ O cease to live, if thou wouldst end thy pain I ' 

No, this sad life I will endure no more, 
The world's to me a horrible abode, 
In vain of heaven for mercy I implore, 
My stars no gleam of fortune ever show'd : 



91 

Love has for me all wretchedness in store, 
But from my back I'll shake the galling load -, 
No nymph can jilt me, and no cares can wound, 
When I am laid a fathom under ground. 

And since the truth at length is come to light, 
And I too clearly find, from thy aversion, 
That on my hearse thou fain wouldst glut thy sight, 
And wouldst not spare e'en then thy sharp aspersion; 
Thou soon shalt own for once I've acted right, 
For I'll destroy myself for thy diversion, 
Against a stony wall my brains I'll knock, 
Or dash me headlong down a shagged rock. 

In no fine monument, nor holy place, 

With rich or happy, shall my bones be mated; 

But, in thy cottage-path, a little space 

Shall hold the shepherd thou so long hast hated. 

And, that the world may know of my disgrace, 

The whole shall simply on a stone be stated ; 

From first to last unwary swains shall see 

The end I came to but for loving thee. 



m 

Then welcome death,, and in my winding-sheet 
Let me be carried soon in sad procession, 
And if, within my breast, thou love shalt meet, 
O drive the traitor out from his possession ! 
Thou, only thou, canst quench my burning heat, 
And wholly free me from my long oppression. 
Then welcome, death! and end this painful strife, 
At once extinguishing my care and life. 

Farewell my little farm, my flowery mead, 
That long have nourish'd me with kind supplies; 
Since this hard fate is hovering o'er my head, 
That only death can dry my tearful eyes, 
Your soil shall lightly o'er my bones be spread, 
When Sandra's frown and smile alike I prize ; 
Your pleasant prospects I no more shall view, 
'Tis my last look, and now a long adieu. 

Thus Cecco griev'd, and from his mistress hied, 

By some heroic death to end his woe; 

But as the sun he in the west espied, 

Laid down to sleep before he gave the blow : 



9'-i 

And when he woke, reflecting, if he died, 
His little farm would all to ruin go, 
He, hence consenting milder thoughts to nourish, 
Resolv'd to live, that his affairs might flourish. 



PASTORAL ELEGIES. 



97 



ELEGY I. 

Ye swains ! to this sad spot your footsteps bend, 
Throw down your fiagelets, your sport suspend ; 
For Henry, gentle Henry, is no more, 
Henry, the country's boast, the shepherd's friend, 
Lies buried on this melancholy shore. 

Ye nymphs! with heavy hearts, and streaming eyes, 
Oh ! hither come, for here your Henry lies : 
O'er the green turf the choicest flowerets strew; 
Be one your mind, in sorrow sympathize, 
And pay a debt to worth and virtue due. 

For never swain possess' d a heart so kind, 
So mild a temper, so inform'd a mind: 
His active goodness, like a copious stream, 
Flow'd through each various station of mankind, 
Diffusive as the sun's impartial beam. 

H 



9S 

When danger threatend, or distress was near, 
He felt no weakness, and betray 'd no fear, 
With firm composure every effort bent 
To hush the storm, the lurid weather clear, 
Did all he could, and left to heaven th' event. 

He ample worth distinguish' d in the poor 

To gain his patronage, and love secure; 

Though fortune's outcasts, and the rich man's jest, 

By every friend deserted, they were sure 

To find a friend in Henry's feeling breast. 

The village feud, the family dispute, 
His friendly interference renderd mute. 
To him the father, mother, son, appeal'd, 
To him the lovely daughter made her suit, 
And blushingly her inmost thoughts reveal'd. 

For he for lore and wisdom was renown d 
Above the rest that liv'd on pastoral ground: 
Full well he could a store of tales relate 
To the admiring shepherds sitting round, 
For fluent speech he had, and memory great. 



99 

He could repeat from Milton's lofty lay 
Some moral lines, and some from Pope and Gay: 
The graceful Addison he twice had readj 
The hymns of Watts, and elegy of Gray, 
Were all contain'd in his retentive head. 

And yet he ne'er with ostentatious pride 
The low unletter'd peasant would deride $ 
Unlike those pedants ancient scraps that speak, 
Who think no sense, nor reason, can reside 
In any tongue but Roman, and in Greek. 

With Christian courage, and submissive heart, 
He met the stroke of death's unerring dart. 
Within this mean unsculptur'd mansion lies 
His frail mortality, his earthly part, 
His soul has sought its kindred in the skies. 



]()() 



ELEGY II. 



Do not, ye proud and affluent! disdain 
That humble tomb, on yonder verdant plain: 
Within the womb of that sepulchral stone 
Repose the relics of a simple swain, 
Whose noble virtues merit to be known. 

What! though a stranger to the avenging sword, 
He never mingled with a frantic horde 
In foreign warfare, or domestic broil, 
With steady hand a brother's bosom gor'd, 
Nor heeded honour gain'd by martial toil I 

Shall we alone our admiration pay 

To those who fill the world with dire dismay ? 

Oh! human folly, with unjust delight 

The desolating conqueror to survey, 

Who should awake but hatred, and affright. 



1-01 

In proud insulting triumph he appears, 
A triumph purchased with a nation's tears. 
Amid the maddening shouts a dismal stave 
Pervades the tumult, and assails my ears, 
An awful sound — it issues from the grave. 

Ye injur'd shades! your many wrongs shall meet 
With just redress, your vengeance be complete} 
Sure is the stroke, though tardy be its course: 
The haughty chief, though echoing plaudits greet 
His dazzling feats, at length shall feel remorse. 

Mid feasts, and homage, and tumultuous joy, 

No deep reflections may his peace destroy : 

But when the hours of solitude arrive, 

His conscience cries, ' My glory I enjoy 

From slaughter'd thousands — it can never thrive.* 

No thoughts like these e'er harrow'd William's breast, 
No horrid visions broke upon his rest : 
When night had spread her friendly shades around, 
With cheerful mind his humble bed he prest, 
And balmy slumber on his pallet found. 



102 

No rich possessions were his lucky lot ; 
Yet though so poor, he seem'd to know it not : 
Those he ne'er envied who at ease reclin'd, 
But thankful for his patrimonial spot, 
He never fancied fortune was unkind. 

And if his lowly state, and scanty fare, 

E'er marr'd his peace, and fill'd his breast with care, 

'Twas when the child of indigence and woe 

Would to his little hut for aid repair, 

And he had nought but pity to bestow. 

Tis not beneath the stately gilded roof 
Humanity resides 5 oh no ! aloof 
From power and pomp the gentle goddess stands, 
Condemns their selfish pride with mild reproof, 
And herds with shepherd, and with savage bands. 

Did William chance the traveller to meet 
With scrip exhausted, and with weary feet, 
He'd walk by the unhappy wanderer's side, 
Kindly support him to his mean retreat, 
And with him would his only loaf divide. 



103 



When he the awful debt of nature paid, 
With such a heart, ah! could he be dismay 'd? 
Calm was his bosom in the solemn strife : 
O ye who would rely on heaven for aid, 
Revere his name, and imitate his life! 



104 



AMELIA. 



Amelia was the village pride, 

A nymph devoid of art, 
And pleasure frolick'd by her side, 

And peace was in her heart. 

But in this sublunary sphere 
How short the joys we hail! 

Our woes unnumbered and severe, 
Our pleasures few and frail ! 

Though heart-corroding care and spleen 

Consum'd her lively grace, 
Still captivating was her mien,, 

Still lovely was her face. 



10.5 

From her swoln eye the tears descend 

Adown her pallid cheeks, 
While thus, bereft of peace and friend, 

In touching tone she speaks : 

• From love, that makes the heart elate, 
And sooths our keenest woes, 

Unhappy me ! obdurate fate ! 
From love my ills arose. 

To Henry, vers'd in lover's wile, 

I lent a willing ear, 
And thought his mind exempt from guile, 

His vows as mine sincere. 



He talk'd of faithfulness and truth, 
My doubts and fears appeas'd j 

I, simple maid, believ'd the youth, 
Too willing to be pleas'd. 



106 

So on the barbarous shores of Nile, 

The unwary to surprise, 
The fierce deceitful crocodile 

Assumes the infant's cries. 

But when he found my heart his own, 

And stray'd beyond recall, 
His fond affection all was flown, 

His vows forgotten all. 

Whether a love, so soon confess'd, 

He view with cold disdain, 
Or some proud nymph, of wealth possess'd, 

Attract the sordid swain, 



He now to other damsels flies 
To flatter and deceive, 

And leaveth me, untimely wise, 
My hopeless lot to giieve.' 



107 

Scarce had she spoken when she heard 
The village church-bell play, 

And soon a numerous group appeared, 
With voice and gesture gay. 

Surrounded by the joyous band, 

Her Henry she espied, 
With transport walking hand in hand 

With his elected bride. 



Enough : her faltering steps retire 
To reach her father's gate : 

Ye curious, would ye now enquire 
The wretched damsel's fate ? 



Peace to thy manes, gentle maid ! 

May all the trying woes, 
That here thy tender breast essay'd, 

Be lost in sweet repose ! 



108 

O may thy spirit soar above 

An angel bright and pure! 
Where peace, and bliss, and holy love, 

Eternally endure. 



So for each care that here was dealt 
Thy feeling mind to goad, 

Shall thousand ecstacies be felt 
In thy divine abode, 



109 



ON SOLITUDE. 



In solitude's serene retreats 

Full many a joy arises,, 
Which every heart, where feeling beats, 

With fervid passion prizes. 

To be compell'd the rounds to tread 

Of fashion s flowery mazes, 
Where vice undaunted shows her head, 

And simpering folly gazes ; 

To mark the finger of the scorner 

At needy worth directed, 
And find, to the remotest corner, 

But rank and wealth respected ; 



no 

It is a reason most profound 

The feeling mind to fester, 
But him these ills do not surround 

Whom lonely shades sequester. 

Then hurry from a crowded station 
To groves, and limpid streams, 

That foster bright imagination, 
Befriend her heavenly dreams. 

There I indulge in, when alone, 
A thousand charming fancies, 

And through a range of lands unknown 
My happy mind romances. 

Sometimes, upborne on pinion flighty, 

I quit my humble station, 
Possess the joys that court the mighty, 

Unmixd with their vexation. 



Ill 

Then, scorning royal state and splendour, 
And useless pageant treasures, 

I'm lost in visions, soft and tender, 
In love's ecstatic pleasures. 

Though here to gain my fair-one's favour 

Each effort fruitless prove, 
In fancy's land no power can save her 

From my successful love. 

But whilst my mind, with sweet illusion, 

In airy castles revels, 
Some worldly care, or blunt intrusion, 

The beauteous structure levels. 



Sole mistress of my true affection ! 

O ! wouldst thou be propitious, 
I'd ne'er from fancy seek protection, 

And snatch a joy fictitious. 



112 



For thou my own, no other treasure 

Of heaven would I beseech. 
For thou my own, each wish'd-for pleasure 

Would be within my reach. 



113 



ON CONTEMPLATION. 

Come, Contemplation! pensive maid, 
Come, in thy sober weeds array'd, 

And fill my vacant mind 5 
With thee, meek monitor, in view, 
I'll fly the noisy jovial crew, 

And pleasures unrefin d. 

Thou ever shun'st the public gaze, 
To pass thy unmolested days 

In some sequester'd grove 5 
Thy thoughtful features never show 
A lively red, or wanton glow, 

Averse from mirth, and love. 

Love in those breasts can only dwell 
Who never seek thy mossy cell 
Thine influence mild to claim -, 

1 



114 

They,, who thy pure communion prize, 
Above that selfish passion rise, 
And cherish friendship s flame. 

Love, restless as a raging fire, 
With tyrant sway, and wild desire, 

The sickening heart destroys -, 
But friendship, like heaven's genial rays, 
Beams with a mild and equal blaze, 

The source of tranquil joys. 

Oh ! let me thy dominion prove, 

And turn my chasten'd thoughts from love ; 

Let triflers, idly gay, 
Own his dread pow'r, and idolize 
The splendor of Aspasia's eyes, 

The beauty of the day. 

And whilst with thee I often muse, 
Thy lessons be of noblest use, 
Exceeding any price : 



115 

Teach me that power, however great, 
Injustice cannot vindicate, 
Nor riches varnish vice. 

Oh ! whether fortune, fickle maid ! 
Present herself in smiles array'd, 

Or stern in frowns appear 5 
Teach me, without a conscience pure, 
No bliss can ever be secure, 

With it no woe severe. 

So shall content, whatever my lot, 
The large estate, or humble cot, 

My station ever bless 5 
Avert remorse's pungent sting, 
The balmy peace of virtue bring, 

And solid happiness. 



EPISTLES. 



Ii9 



TO MY BROTHER 

ROBERT, 

ON HIS PRESENTING ME A SUPERB EDITION OF 

milton's works. 



Oft have I wish'd that Milton's fire 

Would animate my lays, 
Like that bold poet to aspire 

To never-fading praise. 

But from a distant humble plain 
I view his mountain height, 

All art is fruitless, labour vain, 
To paragon his flight. 



Like him to range through regions wide 

The rash attempt I shun 5 
Presumptuous Phaeton could not guide 

The chariot of the sun. 



120 

But now his poesy sublime 

I less than ever need 5 
Nor feel the want of Milton's rhyme 

To praise a friendly deed. 



No need of speech., in fancy dr< 
To paint the grateful sense 5 

For gratitude is painted best 
By silent eloquence. 



drest, 



Oft, Robert, in my boyish days, 

Thy kind advice bestow'd, 
Has snatch'd me from wild folly's ways, 

And mark'd me virtue's road. 



And when thy counsel, just and true, 

I madly set at nought, 
What thy fair precept fail'd to do, 

Thy bright example taught. 



121 

Then, as a tribute pure, receive 
The thanks that I impart, 

And if deficient, oh ! believe 
They're written in my heart. 



122 



TO A LADY WITH MY POEMS. 

Tis said (though I could never hear 
The charge without profound affliction) 
That nothing women hold more dear, 
Both old and young, than contradiction. 

It summons all my indignation 
That malice on their worth should trample, 
'Mongst other acts of defamation 
Producing this as an example : 

That if a poet should inherit 
A precious stock of flowery graces ) 
They still will show his vast dement, 
Ay ! clearly as they show their faces. 

But if unkind imagination 
Exclude him from her bright dominion;, 
They, pitying then his humble station. 
Will lift him high on fancy's pinion. 



123 

Well then ! this conduct pray pursue, 
As rhymist I shall be a gainer, 
And, just enroll'd, be prov'd by you 
As able as an old campaigner. 

But will you make a further trial 
This reputation to complete, 
And contradict, with firm denial, 
Truths often utter' d at your feet ? 

You nod assent: then boldly say 
Your eyes are dull, your wit phlegmatic j 
You who have eyes as bright as day, 
You who have wit as keen as Attic. 



124 



TO CAROLINE, 



ON THE SAME OCCASION. 



Though bards, in these degenerate days, 
Some ostentatious patron prize, 
Nor blush to lavish sordid praise $ 
On purer hopes my muse relies, 
And seeks no patron to her lays, 
But rosy lips, and sparkling eyes. 

Our toil the approving fair can bless 
More sweetly than applauding sages $ 
They more alleviate our distress, 
They more adorn our tuneful pages, 
Dispense immediate happiness, 
And glory in succeeding ages. 



125 

To thee I make my earnest claim 
Whose smile can gloomy fortune cheer, 
Whose mildness is averse to blame, 
Whose wisdom is not too severe, 
Whose voice shall be the voice of fame 
To fascinate each listening ear. 



126 



TO THE SAME. 

*Tis stated rhymers ne'er tell truth) 
Do you believe it, gentle maid? 
An accusation so uncouth 
Is harder to be provd than said. 

Howe'er, a method I'll pursue 
Shall show this bold opinion wrong. 
What method is it? making you 
The graceful subject of my song. 

And who, in this abode of sin, 
Is proof against your cunning charms 5 
For whom your prattle cannot win> 
Your mild benevolence disarms. 



1127 

To please each eye, and station, well, 
You unexhausted means afford ; 
Possessing, avaricious belle! 
Of mental wealth a precious hoard. 

In handsome order, marshall'd, stand 
Ingenious wit, and elocution, 
Fun, humour, archness, at command, 
Employ' d in praise — or persecution; 

A spirit firm, and resolute, 

A happy talent of persuasion, 

A subtlety that will confute, 

Or, press'd, will find some apt evasion. 



As if these riches were a trifle, 
With keen rapacious glance you look 
On foreign stores, and boldly rifle 
The treasures of each sapient book. 



128 

As mighty kings their power enhance 
By subsidizing some ally} 
So you the wit of Rome and France 
Enlist to swell your own supply. 

To me a little portion lend, 
From this inestimable mine ; 
In need to help a faithful friend 
Must please the heart of Caroline. 

That heart where meets, in perfect union, 
Each gift a damsel should possess, 
Where sage reflection holds communion 
With unaffected cheerfulness > 

Where warm philanthropy infuses 
A wish that all should happy be, 
Which kindly others' faults excuses, 
Faults, from which only you are free. 



129 

A single brilliant I implore, 

Which, surely, would be miss'd from you 

As little as a drop of ore 

From the rich mountain of Peru. 

But if you slight my supplication, 
And have, too hastily, decreed, 
Never to grant me a donation, 
For which so earnestly I plead; 

O ! for such unexpected pride, 
May every hope, by you exprest, 
By froward fortune be denied, 
If form'd — against your interest. 



This malice may your wrath excite, 
This dulness may your patience tire ! 
But in whatever I say, or write, 
When you my voice, or muse, inspire, 



130 



Believe me, through each varied scene, 
That yields delight, or discontent ; 
Whatever pleases you I mean, 
Whateer offends is never meant. 



131 



TO THREE SISTERS. 



Fortune we often see distribute 
Her favours out of place, and season; 
To what can we such freaks attribute? 
She's woman — pray, is that the reason? 

She lately gave a worthless peasant 

A Persian essence, rich, and clear, 

Who little merited the present; 

But why ? — have patience, and you'll hear. 

In case, with patent lock to fit it, 
He kept it, pack'd with city neatness; 
And never would the churl permit it 
To scatter round ambrosial sweetness 



132 

But once (it was an instance rare) 

He found himself in bounteous humour 3 

And sent it to three ladies fair, 

By virtue lov'd, extoll'd by rumour : 

Who seem, to each discerning being, 
In all accomplishments excelling 5 
Who more enchant the sense of seeing, 
Than it can please the sense of smelling. 

Them he beholds, with pure delight, 
Ever some novel grace appearing; 
And as their beauty charms his sight, 
Their voice transports his sense of hearing. 

But, by such conduct long pursuing, 
Which now such ecstacy dispenses ; 
He, through the dangerous sense of viewing. 
May altogether lose his senses. 






133 



TO MISS W- 



Can you awhile, my lovely friend, 

Your tranquil country joys suspend, 

And have the patience to peruse 

TV effusions of an humble muse? 

I have no grace to recommend me, 

No attic spirit to befriend me \ 

I cannot tales of scandal tell, 

Which pretty women love so well; 

And, what's a more important matter, 

Alas ! I know not how to flatter. 

But though my rhyming be not brighter 

Than that of any song-inditer, 

Still curiosity will bind, 

In magic spell, your eyes, and mind, 

Until the whole contents you know; 

You're woman, and it must be so. 



134 



Her pungent powers will lead the fair 

A pretty dance, now here, now there, 

Or matron, widow, wife, or maid, 

In search, of what ? an idle shade. 

So when the night, with mantle gray, 

Obscures the pleasing solar ray, 

The traveller pursues his route, 

With cautious step, in fear and doubt: 

But if the will-a-wisp arise 

A taper to his cheated eyes, 

Encourag'd by the cheerful sight, 

He pushes on to gain the light, 

Which, at each stride the wanderer takes 

O'er stones, o'er hillocks, and o'er brakes, 

Withdraws the glimmering of its fire, 

So that he's ne'er a jot the nigh'r. 

E'en I, whom sober nature made 

To follow dull mechanic trade, 

Misled by some uncertain blaze 

On which I simply love to gaze, 

In poetry's sweet garden run, 

And never find that blaze a sun. 



135 

What wonder then, though various plants 

I cherish to supply my wants, 

That, check'd by such a constant gloom, 

They faintly bud, and never bloom. 

Would you this sullen gloom disperse, 

And kindly animate my verse, 

I might approach the shrine of fame, 

And rival some whom I could name, 

For former glaring faults atone, 

And shine by merit not my own. 

So Ninon, by cosmetic art 

Contriv'd to play a beauty's part, 

And raise her lovers' hopes, and fears, 

When she had flourish'd eighty years. 



136 



TO A LADY AT ST. ALBANS. 



The praise of ladies is a favourite theme 
In which we men, with one assent, agree 5 
There women own our judgment is supreme, 
And so does wisdom when we're praising thee. 

To female excellence a debt we owe 

Of tender deference, and poetic lines -, 

There should the muse her tuneful gifts bestow, 

Where virtue flourishes, and merit shines. 

But can (they say) a maid, to me unknown, 
Have power to fix my long uncertain choice? 
What though to me thy charms have ne'er been shown, 
Has love no raptures, and has fame no voice ? 



137 

And though I always hearken with distrust 

To tales that faults unfeelingly expose, 

Yet commendation I consider just, 

For worth finds honest friends, though slanderous foes. 

Now in the blush of life's unclouded morn 
What various objects thy attention court! 
Brisk youth transports thee, heavenly smiles adorn, 
And round thee joys in gay assemblage sport. 

The laughing hours in sweet confusion fly, 
Unmingled with a shadow of distress, 
Each day fresh pastimes novel mirth supply, 
And golden dreams thy downy slumbers bless. 

Whatever thy wish ! who would thy wish defeat? 
Not those, I'm sure, who female charms respect j 
Such forms as thine but little censure meet, 
And seldom feel the coldness of neglect. 



138 

But will this admiration ever last, 

Will youth endure, and beauty ever bloom? 

Uncivil time pursues his journey fast, 

And genial spring retards not winter s gloom. 

And when no more the sparkling eye inspires, 
Nor more the Grecian form conveys delight, 
When spirits droop, and playfulness retires, 
Are nymphs so perfect, and their wit so bright ? 

Soon as the juvenile complexion flies 
Men shift their homage to the rising sun, 
Forget their vows, behold with other eyes, 
And her whom then they courted, now they shun. 

Oh ! I should grieve thy brilliant hopes to cloud 
And stain thy cheek with unavailing tears 5 
But though this fate attend the vain, and proud, 
Why shouldst thou cherish such foreboding fears } 



139 

For when thou shalt with indignation view 
Thy lovers faithless, and the world unkind, 
Thou still wilt fascinate a chosen few 
With the rich stores of thy unfading mind. 



140 



TO THE SAME. 



Gay are the dreams of fancy's busy brain, 

Her fairy touch can sooth the keenest pain, 

Joy's silken banner to the wretch unfold, 

And change the vilest dross to precious gold. 

But, often, when the near approach is made, 

Her fabric totters, and her colours fade, 

And she avows, with tragical despair, 

She was but building castles in the air. 

I once, like others, own'd her sprightly sway, 

(E'en with the dullest fancy has her day;) 

No more with tame reality content, 

I haiFd the visions that th' enchantress sent, 

Exalted you on beauty's radiant throne, 

Gave you each grace that women wish to own, 

But when the fair original I knew, 

Unlike the rest, I found the portrait true. 



141 

Or rather say that with no master's hand 

I trac'd the charms which all my thoughts command; 

For how can mind conceive, or pen express, 

The bright perfection you alone possess? 

But shall despair, with icy grasp, benumb 

My willing voice, and keep my genius dumb } 

No! I distinguish a consoling ray 

That beams more brightly than the star of day, 

That renders each foreboding terror less, 

Dear pledge of hope, and beacon of success ! 

Array' d in smiles methinks I see you stand 

Dispensing favours with a bounteous hand ; 

And shall not I advance to claim the prize, 

Cheer'd by those tuneful lips, and sparkling eyes ? 

So in heroic days the gallant knight 

Encounter'd all the perils of the fight 

To please some maid, like you, divinely fair, 

(If any damsel can with you compare) 

And toil'd to gain distinction o'er the rest 

In hopes to wear her colours on his crest. 

Once Cymon (pray endure a simple tale) 

Liv'd a dull clown in some secluded vale. 



142 

Contented with his hoe or plough to plod, 
Among bis peers he was the meanest clod; 
Till Iphigenia met his vacant eyes, 
Occasioned strange sensations to arise, 
His savage manners fashion d to controul, 
And first inform'd him that he had a soul. 
Quick revolution ! now, inspired by love, 
He strives his boorish habits to remove, 
With patient study polishes his mind, 
Becomes respectful, courteous, and refin d, 
Endued with sensibility, and grace, 
And all effected by a lovely face. 
The application's ready— you can guess 
The apparent truth before my lips confess ; 
Your magic influence shall my breast pervade, 
Inspire my muse, and snatch her from the shade, 
With friendly veil her many failings hide, 
And give her powers which nature hath denied. 



143 



THE PROPHETESS. 

Twas night: the king, whose watchful eyes 

No charm could bind, no sleep surprise, 

No hope his tortur'd mind compose, 

Unheeded from his couch arose. 

On the bare earth his warriors lay, 

Exhausted by th' eventful day; 

Their dangerous toil, and care profound, 

Awhile in sweet oblivion drown'd. 

The monarch paus'd 5 but soon, intent 

On various thoughts, he forward went, 

And pass'd the limits of his tent. 

The moon, with mild and borrow'd ray, 

With beauteous semblance mocks the day. 

He sighs when, by her humble light, 

His thousand ships salute his sight; 

His fleet recalls his former aims, 

And thus in anguish he exclaims: 



144 

Deceitful Phoebus ! did my hand 
So soon obey thy dire command, 
Thus to endure defeat, and shame, 
And Hector crown with endless fame ? 
By thee, O cruel son of Jove ! 
Divested of a father's love, 
I gave for glory's idle praise 
A beauteous daughter's blooming days. 
Oh, deed accurst ! oh, mind insane ! 
Tyrannic god! prediction vain! 
Does thus the treacherous Paris die, 
And Ilion's smoke ascend the sky ? 
I hear the trampling victor's feet 
Invade my camp, approach my fleet. 
The mighty Hector's vengeful hand 
Waves high in air the flaming brand, 
The Trojans rush to seize their prize, 
My ships consume, my people dies. 
Here grief the monarch's voice supprest, 
And silent sorrow fill'd his breast. 
But now the lessening moon retires 
Her pale and melancholy fires, 



145 

And o'er the hills, and vales, and plains, 

The lengthening wand of darkness reigns. 

The angry heavens a deluge pour, 

And foams the sea, and shakes the shore. 

The king espied a distant light 

That glimmer'd through the gloomy night. 

With haggard eye, and faltering pace. 

He hastened to the friendly place; 

He reach'd the cell, he loudly knock'd, 

A voice replied, the door unlock'd. 

Drench'd with the storm, with wandering spent, 

He in the dreary hamlet went, 

And, as he cast his eyes around, 

Beheld a hag upon the ground. 

Her face was wan, her figure bent, 

Her looks denoted discontent, 

Her hollow cheeks, and vacant stare, 

Incessant fa-t, and constant care ; 

Her scanty garment, patch'd and torn, 

Disfigur'd what it would adorn. 

In her portray 'd the Grecian view'd 

Woe, meanness, and decrepitude. 



146 

With croaking voice, and half suppressed, 
The astonish'd monarch she address'd. 
O son of Atreus ! hero, hail ! 
Thrice welcome to this silent vale, 
Where fierce Bellona, though she reign 
The terror of the neighbouring plain, 
Her dreadful scourges never brings : 
Thrice welcome here, O king of kings! 
Nay, wonder not that I should guess 
Thy station, and thy name express ; 
I'm Cellene the prophetess. — 
' Since then thy mind the future knows, 
Ah! more important truths disclose. 
Say, shall I haughty Troy confound, 
Shall Greece with victory be crown'd ? 
Pronounce $ and aught by me possest 
Is thine, whatever thy request.' 
The dame arose ; her eyeballs flash'd, 
Her forehead frown' d, her teeth she gnash'd, 
The sybil foam her lips o'erflow'd, 
Each mark of frantic rage she show'd j 







london ,-Tublisl t directs. Jpru 



147 

She wildly pac'd her narrow cell, 

And call'd upon, with horrid yell; 

The sprites of earth, and imps of hell. 

At length these words her transport broke 5 

Atrides trembled as she spoke : 

* The midnight thief must first be ta'en, 

Nor lead the car along the plain; 

First must two chiefs, of high degree, 

In silence climb the sacred tree, 

Whilst Troy is lull'd in thoughtless ease, 

The Athenian owl must boldly seize. 

The gentle horse, whose harmless feet 

The patient earth shall never beat, 

But whose ungovernable flanks 

Shall rout and slaughter adverse ranks, 

Must enter first, in pompous state, 

And semblant peace, the Trojan gate : 

When these arrive, no force, nor skill, 

Shall stay your arms, or thwart your will; 

Then shall you victory enjoy 

And burn the towers of impious Troy 5 



148 

Then shall her warriors wear your chains, 
And her fair nymphs reward your pains/ 
She ceas'd : the moon and stars again 
Adorn'd the skies, illum'd the plain. 
Atrides hasten'd to his tent, 
Pondering her speeches as he went. 



149 



ARGUMENT. 

Count Ugolino, by treachery, had rendered himself master of 
Pisa, with the assistance of Roger, archbishop ot that city ; 
but his apostate friend, accusing him afterwards of deliver- 
ing up some Pisan castles to the Florentines, he was thrown 
into a dungeon, with all his children, and starved to death. 
They were both placed in the third circle of hell ; but the 
priest, as his crimes were greater, was condemned to the 
additional punishment of having his head serve as the per- 
petual nourishment to his betrayed accomplice. This story 
is pathetically told in the thirty-third canto of Dante's Infer- 
no. I have adopted the terza rima of the original, though 
novel to the English ear, and difficult to the English poet. 



COUNT UGOLINO. 

From the dire food the sinner rais'd his head; 
And, wiping from his mouth the clotted gore 
Of that foul pasture, upon which he fed, 
He thus began: — Immeasurable store 



150 

Of bitter woe thou will'st me to renew, 

Which far exceeds what mortal ever bore. 

But if from my narration shall ensue 

Scorn to the traitor whom I thus chastise, 

My joy and grief thou shalt together view. 

I know thee not, nor hither in what guise 

Thou cam'st 5 but by thy speech a Florentine 

I deem thee, though a stranger to my eyes. ■ 

Some time ago I was Count Ugolinej 

Archbishop Roger was this bloody fiend, 

Whom in my gripe I ever shall confine. 

To tell how, lur'd by this perfidious friend, 

To my stern foes a captive I became, 

Who murder'd me, I need no moment spend. 

But, what thou hast not learnt from common fame, 

How more than usual was my death severe, 

I will inform thee to this felon s shame. 

A little window in the dungeon drear, 

The tower of famine, from my durance, hight, 

Where other thralls shall drop the unheeded tear, 

Had shown me, several days, a niggard light, 



151 

When this foreboding dream appeared to me, 

Which blaz'd futurity upon my sight; 

This wretch I saw, clearly as seen by thee, 

Hunting a wolf, with whelps, upon that hill 

For which the Pisans cannot Lucca see. 

With dogs, train'd up to scent, pursue, and kill, 

Sismondi, with Lanfranchi, he had plac'd 

In front, his savage purpose to fulfil. 

Not long the father, and the sons, were chac'd, 

When by the thirsty bloodhounds they were seiz'd, 

Who tore their entrails, and their forms defac'd. 

I woke, with petrifying horror freezd, 

And heard my children in their sleep complain, 

Begging for bread, but none their claim appeas'd. 

Hard is thy heart, if thou from tears refrain, 

Divining that which harrow'd me with fear, 

And no distress thy pity can obtain ! 

Their slumbers fled: and now, approaching near 

The time, when we receiv'd our scant repast, 

Our dreams forewarn d us fatal news to hear. 

And soon the jailer made the portal fast 5 






152 

By the harsh clang in greater tremor thrown, 

A wistful look upon my sons I cast, 

I could not weep — my very heart was stone. 

They wept, beholding my distressful case, 

And Anselmuccio cried, in piteous tone, 

Why dost thou gaze so, father, on my face ? 

I could not answer : all that day, and night, 

Until the following sun commenc'd his race, 

Grief chain d my tongue. Soon as the dawn of light 

Disclosed our features, wan with fast, and care, 

And in my sons my likeness met my sight, 

I gnaw'd my hands in anguish, and despair. 

Thinking that hunger urg'd this horrid deed, 

All cried at once, thyself, Oh ! father, spare, 

And on the vitals of thy children feed ; 

This wretched being we received from thee, 

Oh ! then resume thy gift in time of need. 

I hush'd my grief that they might tranquil be $ 

That day, and all the next, no word we spoke. 

Thou didst not open, earth, such crimes to see ! 

When the fourth day had on our misery broke, 



\5S 

My Gaddo, falling prostrate at my side, 

Exclaim'd in vain, thee, father ! I invoke, 

When most I want thine aid ; then groan'd, and died. 

Ere the sixth day was finish'd, one by one, 

The rest expir'd ! Already blind, I tried 

Alternately to clasp each lifeless son : 

Three days I mourn'd their fate, when famine wrought 

What grief was insufficient to have done. 









MISCELLANIES. 



157 



THE PAIR OF BOOTS. 



A bumpkin once, as he a gallows past, 
Where a poor felon had just breath'd his last, 
As on the wretch he cast a pitying view, 
Thinking perhaps his turn might next ensue ; 
(Such thoughts must touch us on our tender side !) 
Upon his legs a pair of boots espied, 
With graceful motion dangling in the air, 
Not new, but still not much the worse for wear. 
Which course I prythee could the rustic steer, 
When this soft whisper murmur'd in his ear, 
The boots are janty, and the coast is clear? 
With walking bare his feet were gall'd and sore, 
And that poor man could never want them more. 
Without more reasoning to the thief he went, 
And tugg'd so sturdily as if he meant 
To bring the gallows down, but might as well 
Have tried with fisty-cuffs an ox to fell ; 



158 

For, spite of every effort that he made, 

He found he carried on a losing trade. 

Well, says young Clodpole, I'll not leave this spot, 

Whate'er it cost me, till these boots I've got 5 

And though they say I've but a shallow head, 

I warrant I'm a match for one that's dead. 

So from his poke his shining knife he drew, 

(That knife which many a useful purpose knew, 

Which fancifully carv'd his scanty prog, 

Now cut a crab-stick, and now kili'd a hog) 

And, trusting to repair his former blunder, 

Hack'd the resisting sinews sheer asunder; 

And then, with hasty step, and glistening eyes, 

He homeward trudgd in raptures with his prize. 

He had his lodgings at a cowherd's stall, 

For he was lowly bred, and poor withal. 

But as that luckily is not a law 

Against a good night's rest, upon the straw 

He slept as soundly there, though not so late, 

As any titled rogue who snores in state. 

As fortune oft delights her tricks to play, 

It hap'd the peasant's cow had calv'd that day, 



159 

And, to protect it from the piercing air, 

(For 'twas December) had been turn'd in there. 

When the clown rose, and had some time bestow' d 

The boots to disencumber from their load, 

He went his way his daily work to mind, 

And soon the peasant came his calf to find ; 

And calling his old friend by name, with whom 

He us'd in chat some minutes to consume, 

When, in his good companion's place, appear'd 

The mangled limbs most horribly besmear'd; 

Scar'd at the bloody sight, he stood aghast, 

As if each moment would have been his last : 

And knowing that his crony was too poor 

To tempt a robber to the stable- door, 

He, at his wits', or nearly at their, end, 

Concluded that the calf had eat his friend, 

And, finding him too much for one attack, 

The legs had destin'd for an after- snack: 

With which idea hurrying to the priest, 

He told the frolic of the wicked beast. 

The holy wight, when he had heard him out, 

Conceiv'd how matters had been brought about; 



160 

That some malignant fiend, to man a foe, 
Had ta'en his quarters there to work him woe : 
And, as the Christian's guide, and soul's physician ; 
He had the knack of foiling a magician; 
To show his horror of the monstrous deed, 
The lowing sorcerer to the flames decreed : 
With wisdom judging if, in early youth, 
The fell demoniac had so keen a tooth, 
That, when a little time matur'd the sinner, 
He d eat a dozen reverend priests for dinner. 






161 



THE SAGACIOUS CALCULATOR. 

A gentleman, (he liv'd no matter where) 

With wit and eloquence beyond compare. 

But of a form not likely to delight, 

In short, to tell the truth, a perfect fright, 

Resolvd to marry — oh! could one so plain 

E'er hope a girl's affection to obtain? 

I've often heard there is a certain guide 

To overcome a dainty woman's pride, 

And, let her suitor be deform'd, and old, 

The charm ne'er fails, the potent charm of gold. 

Our spark, a tender passion to create, 

Possess'd a splendid house, and large estate, 

Advantages, though ne'er by sages priz'd, 

In my opinion not to be despis'd* 

Upon a lovely maid he fix d his mind, 

He leer d, and courted, and he found her kind. 

M 



162 

Though strong her power, and paltry his defence, 

She had one small defect — the want of sense. 

However, that no blame he might attract, 

He thought he'd ask his friends how he should act. 

Their prudent votes against the match were carried, 

For which he thank'd them, and next day was married 5 

Concluding, for his comfort, that his race 

Would have their father's mind, and mother's face : 

But ah ! the wisest man is sometimes blind, 

They had their father's face, and mother's mind. 



163 



THE EPHESIAN MATRON, 

FROM LA FONTAINE. 

If e er there was a thread-bare tale related, 
It is the one I'm on the point to tell j 
Then why select a fact, so often stated, 
When any other might have done as well ? 

Ye critics ! who each work decry, 

'Tis vain for scribblers to reply j 
So leaving you objections to advance, 
I'll risk my story, and abide my chance. 

At Ephesus, in former days, 
There liv'd a lady, prudent, good, and wise, 

Though singular in all her ways, 
Who lov'd her husband dearer than her eyes. 

Alas ! he died ; to tell you how 

I deem superfluous detail ; 

In short he died as men do now, 

And left his wife to weep and wail. 



164 

Howe'er, conformably to his professions, 
She was the heiress to his whole possessions. 
So kind a will, you think, might sooth her loss; 
To others such a rich donation 
Might be the means of consolation, 
But she regarded gold as so much dross. 
For now, abhorring the officious light, 
Which to the prying world her grief exposes^, 
Resolv'd with him to seek the realms of night, 
Within his tomb her beauty she encloses. 
O lofty virtue ! love without an equal ! 
But truce with rapture, and attend the sequel. 
Two days she pass'd, with no supplies, 
But hollow groans, and piercing cries, 
Though by some cavillers it is avow'd, 
That real anguish is not quite so loud. 
A little from this doleful scene 
Another corpse maintain'd his station 5 
But his memorial, I ween, 
Was of a different fabrication. 
For, (mark! what fate attends the bad) 



165 

Two pillars,, where he hung between, 
Were all the monument he had. 
As an example he was left there chain'd ; 

A soldier, handsomely rewarded, 

The executed felon guarded, 
And by the magistrate it was ordain'd, 
That if remov'd by force, or by contrivance, 
(Judging it must be with the guard's connivance) 
The careless sentinel should take his place ; 

A hard but necessary case. 

During the darkness of the night, 

He spied a small uncertain light, 

That issued from the neighbouring tomb; 

He thither hastes, he hears the dame 

In lamentable terms exclaim 

Against the harshness of her doom. 
He enters in, and viewing with surprise, 
The novel picture plac'd before his eyes, 
He asks the meaning of those sobs and sighs ? 

Wherefore those melancholy tones, 

The feeble glimmer of the lamp, 



166 

The sable dress, the piled stones, 
The dismal mansion black and damp ? 
Attentive to the object of her tears, 
These frivolous demands she scarcely hears. 
The corpse, extended at her side, 
Though dumb, sufficiently replied, 
And show'd too well her fatal resolution. 
The honest sentry, with compassion rent, 
To see how tragically matters went, 
Exerted all his stock of elocution, 

To prove, though in this world we bear 
No trifling load of grief, and care, 
Vexations, crosses, plagues, and strife, 
Still there are greater ills than life. 
But, Madam, if your vow be such, 
That not a morsel you will touch, 
At least allow me, by your side, 
My humble supper to provide 5 
You need not share the scanty treat, 
Your presence my repast will bless, 
Nor, trust me, will you die the less, 
For seeing a poor soldier eat. 






167 

To this the mourner lent a gracious ear, 
And gave consent — for what had she to fear ? 
The supper brought, this short harangue ensued, 
Delivered in a manner somewhat rude. 
What reason, lady, can you have 
To covet thus an early grave ? 
Do you then think, if it had been your fate 

Before your husband to have died, 
He would have quarrel'd with this mortal state, 
And fondly moulderd by your side ? 
Oh, no! perhaps a tear, or two, 
Had prov'd his tender passion true; 
And then, conceiving weeping vain, 
He would have liv'd his usual train. 
Must you at twenty, in this horrid place, 
Inter the beauties of your youthful face? 
To your perfections be more just, 
Nor think of mingling with the dust, 
Till age and wrinkles make it clear 
You have no farther business here. 
At this soft speech she raisd her languid head 
From the cold tomb of the lamented dead; 



168 

But, quitting her fastidious pride, 
His rhetoric she does not chide $ 
She even relishes his praise. 
How useful is discerning wit ! 
He leads her by such cunning ways, 
At length she deigns to eat a bit. 
He has the ingenuity to find 
The means her lamentations to appease, 
To change the stubborn purpose of her mind. 
And all by imperceptible degrees; 
Inducing her with him to form fresh ties. 
Whilst at her feet her former consort lies. 
Thus in bewitching converse lost, 
A sudden noise their courtship crost: 
The soldier hurries to his station, 
But ah, unhappy man, too late! 
Some friendly robber, or relation, 
Had in the interval appear'd, 
The gibbet of its burthen clear'd, 
And he must undergo his fate. 
When he returns, his tears proclaim 
His dire misfortune to the dame* 



J 69 

What will the law, she cries, allow no grace I 
No, none, and I must bid adieu 
To joy, to life, to love, and you. 

You shall not meet, she said, a death so base ! 

Since nothing else can remedy the case, 

Here, take this corpse, and fill the vacant place. 






O woman, fickle at the best ! 
Unsteady in thy thoughts, and actions, 
Wert thou of constancy possest, 
Too exquisite were thy attractions! 



170 



THE DOCTOR AND LADY. 

A sage physician (in this sapient age 

Pray what physician thinks he is not sage) 

When all his daily labours were fulflll'd, 

His patients cur'd, sometimes his patients kuTd, 

Would, undisturbed by meddling conscience, dine, 

And freely drink a generous glass of wine. 

It happen'd once, when fever, cough, and gout, 

Kept many a trifler from the play, and rout, 

That, quite exhausted with his rattling rounds, 

In the gay west, or gloomy city-bounds, 

His usual dose he ventur d to exceed, 

A jovial scorner of Sangrado's creed. 

Well — so inclind, what quantity would do? 

Three bottles? — monstrous! but he manag'd two. 

Whilst thus with every joy his heart could prize, 

Whilst fairy visions danc'd before his eyes, 



171 

A pressing summons from a lady came 

His speedy presence, and advice, to claim. 

He left his glass to succour sovereign beauty, 

For pleasure ever must give way to duty. 

When in the room arriv'd, the rush- light's glare 

Eclips'd the radiance of the suffering fair, 

And he, with solemn face, prepar'd to tell 

The drugs and possets that should make her well. 

But, mindless of the tenet of his tribe 

That ever urges to prescribe, prescribe, 

A certain dizzy swimming in his head 

Admonish'd him he'd better go to bed. 

Thus wisely thought, ah ! few are wise in drink, 

He bade the sen ant bring him pen and ink, 

And, though his pride from this confession shrunk, 

With true humility inscrib d c dead drunk.' 

Here, give your mistress this, and wrong, or right, 

'Tis all that I, at present, can endite, 

But should she still require some aid of mine, 

Tell her I'll call to-morrow morn at nine. 

At the appointed time old Galen came, 

And trembling stood before the injur'd dame. 



172 

When she, with downcast look, and pallid hue, 
In faltering voice exclaim'd 'tis very true, 
But, by the faith that you to woman owe, 
Dear doctor! never let my husband know. 



17^ 



THE INCANTATION. 

I've read, (with reading day, and night, 

On curious incidents we light) 

That formerly a heathen sect, 

But where I cannot recollect, 

(Which makes me fear you will be prone 

To think the story all my own) 

Once every year, to combat vice, 

Prepar'd a solemn sacrifice. 

The priest, in sable gown, and hood, 

Before the sacred altar stood 

Displaying, couch'd in mystic rhymes, 

A formidable list of crimes. 

For there 'twas part of his profession, 

At every venerable session, 

The cause of evil to descry, 

And then the remedy apply. 

As, in such uninstructed ages, 

Magic supplies the wit of sages, 



174 

By magic he the secret sought, 

Not by profundity of thought. 

With measur'd pace, and look devout, 

He twirl'd, like mountebanks, about. 

His wrinkled face with ashes smear'd, 

And gnash'd his teeth, and strok'd his beard, 

Then solemnly, upon his knee, 

Declar'd the fatal cause to be- 

But, ere I let it meet your eyes, 

Permit me to apostrophize. 

Ye maidens ! who in Albion dwell, 

And own the envied name of belle, 

Who, young, and sprightly, daily view 

Some doating swain your steps pursue, 

Who daily protestations hear 

That you alone to him are dear, 

And man's too honest to dissemble, 

(Dare I assert it, and not tremble) 

Approach 5 and, if I here advance 

The idle visions of romance, 

By you the truth shall be display'd 

With lips that ever must persuade. 



175 

I think I was about revealing 

The secret as the priest was kneeling. 

After a thousand incantations, 

And prayers, and offerings, and libations, 

He, casting up to heaven his eyes, 

As if that gesture made him wise, 

Each weighty accusation nam'd, 

Then, turning to the crowd, proclaimed, 

With thundering voice, and heart of gall, 

That frantic love produc'd them all. 






176 



THE BEAUTY. 



Away, away, ye lightsome lays! 
No idle love my pen employs, 
No modish miss, trick'd out with toys, 
To captivate unthinking boys, 
Shall coax me to her praise. 

The simpering tribe no more I seek 
With counterfeited love to gain ; 
The trifling, flippant, rattling train, 
May try my homage to obtain, 
But shall not find me meek. 

My flighty heart within itself 
Awhile most prudently retir'd, 
And what its former ardour fir'd 
Was soon, as fame and sense requir'd. 
Laid dormant on the shelf. 



177 

But who from love's imperious sway 
For any length of time is free ? 
Tis paradox that ne'er can be, 
At least 'tis paradox to me, 
For love will have his way. 

And I no sooner had obey'd 
What reason taught me must be right, 
But, e'en in resolution's spite, 
I prov'd myself no anchorite, 
And lov'd another maid. 

But such a maid ! her form so fine, 
Her face so beautiful, and fair, 
So sweet, yet dignified her air, 
We long to offer her our prayer, 
As if she were divine. 

No little female art withdraws 
The least proportion of her praise. 
No restless envy she displays; 
She laughs not, to excite our gaze. 
Nor weeps without a cause. 

N 



178 

No vanity's in her descried, 
No levity her conduct stains, 
She ne'er to folly gives the reins, 
Conceit and prudery she disdains, 
And narrow-minded pride. 

Coy modesty her ample veil 
O'er her enlighten'd mind has thrown 5 
Its charms with no parade are shown, 
They must be sought for to be known, 
But known, they must prevail. 

Around I hear a youthful legion 
With curious earnestness demand 
Where lives this nymph ? Ye rival band ! 
Ye all must know the lovely land, 
She lives in fancy's region. 



179 



THE CONTRAST. 

Who, that Aspasia's form has seen, 
Admires not her bewitching mien ? 
Her mouth, which softest graces stud, 
Smiles like the rose's opening bud, 
Her eyeballs' radiance that flashes 
Through her long black and silken lashes, 
Her white round arm, her slender waist, 
Her lightness, elegance, and taste, 
Her simple unassuming air, 
Proclaim her loveliest of the fair. 
The picture's done: — enthusiast! stay, 
And see what the reverse shall say. 
Her tongue is slander's very dart, 
And sullen pride deforms her heart. 
The purest characters are sure 
To be in her esteem impure. 
Should tears pursue the tale of woe 
From mere hypocrisy they flow.' 



180 . 

Do generous motives warm our breast, 
* We're influence! but by interest.' 
When round the fire the chit-chat flies, 
Assertions here, and there replies, 
Agree with her you give offence, 
And contradiction's insolence, 
Assurance is her detestation, 
And modesty dissimulation. 
Before thee thus the canvass plac'd, 
With such unsightly flaws disgrae'd, 
Although the speaking portrait glow 
With roseate cheek, with neck of snow, 
With glossy hair, and eyes of jet, 
Say, lover! is it beauteous yet? 



181 
THE CONSOLATION OF AGE, 

FROM THE ITALIAN. 

The season of my youthful prime 
On rapid wings has flown away, 
Admitting unrelenting time 
To mix my auburne locks with grey. 
Alas ! the fair, for ever prone 

To mystery, and deceit, 
To me this grating truth alone 

Insultingly repeat. 

Their scornful smiles when I appear, 
Their inattention when I speak, 
Tell me, < we do not wish you here, 
It is not such as you we seek.* 
And off from me they lightly fly, 

To join a boyish band; 
And then loquacious is their eye, 

Their sprightly foot and hand. 



182 

But shall I, with unmanly tears, 
My heart depress, and cheek bedew? 
Ah, no! a gleam of joy appears, 
A brighter prospect is in view. 
Long since I pluck'd the myrtle bough 

On Gnidos' flowery strand $ 
There, peacefully, let others now 

With love be hand in hand. 

Though me the fickle sex disown, 
With youth, and liveliness, to toy.: 
With them each comfort is not flown, 
With them not vanished every joy. 
Henceforth devoted be my days 

To friendship, and to wine ; 
And since my myrtle-wreath decays, 

I'll bind my brows with vine. 

The charm of beauty, though so bright, 
Soon withers as the vernal rose 5 
But thou, O friendship ! canst delight, 
Amid December's gloomy snows; 



183 

Love, puerile, and capricious, flies, 
With youth's vivacious bloom; 

But nought pure friendships sacred ties 
Can sever, but the tomb. 






184 



A VALENTINE. 



To you this frank congratulation 

I cheerfully address, 
Nor fear its want of decoration 

Shall make its merit less. 

What ! though my Valentine discloses 
No Cupids, flowers, and doves, 

Is sense con tain' d in wreaths of roses, 
And painted birds, and loves ? 

So oft to hear their praise recorded, 
One fairly might presume, 

The birds a tuneful song afforded, 
The flowers a rich perfume. 



18.5 

For me, I own that I'm unwilling 

To shine by that renown, 
Which can be purchas'd for a shilling, 

At any shop in town. 

Of themes, to which the most devotion, 

On this occasion's shown, 
As yet you cannot have a notion, 

Though they're so quickly known. 

When some few years your charms discover, 

In ripen d beauty blooming, 
You'll have full many a youthful lover 

Some bashful, some presuming. 

Then justly rate the disposition 

Of those who round you press, 
Smile on the timid swain's petition, 

The daring one repress. 



186 

As only gold, of strict probation, 

Delights the chemist's vision, 
Let merit meet your commendation, 

And folly your derision. 

In tender thought, and metre glowing, 

I then shall be surpast, 
For, though I'm now accounted knowing, 

I can't for ever last. 



Upon the trees, each genial season, 

The verdure is renew'd, 
But men, for some mysterious reason, 

Are made of different wood \ 

Whose verdure, nipt by winter's visit, 

Unlike the flowery plain, 
Though quacks may promise y never is it 

To be restor'd again. 



187 

Whilst others, of the future fearful, 

Forestall the fatal day ! 
In pastimes, rational, and cheerful, 

My hours shall glide away. 

Let reverend sages find enjoyment 
In digging learnings mines, 

I fancy that the best employment 
Is writing Valentines. 

A double title you can proffer 
To gain our foremost lay, 

Which we will to your virtues offer, 
And to your natal day. 

Each, with reciprocal reflection, 
Its separate claim advances, 

As lovers, when they show affection, 
Reflect each other's glances. 



188 

With such a motive to inflame us, 
Each feeling heart must vow 

If this day never had been famous 
It would be famous now. 



V ncn poria giammai 

Imaginary non che narrar gli eflfetti 

Che nel mio cor gli occhi soavi fanno. 

Tutti gli altri diletti 

Di questa vita ho per minori assai, 

E tutt' altre bellezze indietro vanno, 

Petrarca. 



Wl 



TO MY BOOK. 



Go, little book, and thy allurements try, 
Mean as they are, to please Maria's taste; 
Thou wilt discern no anger in her eye, 
Then cease to fear, and to her presence haste. 

For she is ever ready to commend, 
And place each object in its fairest view ; 
And though in homely metre thou art penn'd, 
Thy thoughts are genuine, thy encomiums true. 

Charrn d with her wit, her sprightliness, and grace, 
Thy author on her praises loves to dwell - 7 
With glowing tints, and mimic art, to trace 
Her portrait — happy! could he trace it well. 



192 

But if judicious criticism find 
Coarse the design, the figure colour d ill ; 
Tell her 'tis brightly colour'd in his mind, 
Beyond the reach of any poet's skill. 



193 



TO MARIA. 

No common thought, no inharmonious phrase, 
Maria! should degrade thy poet's lays; 
There Attic wit its polish'd tale should tell, 
Expression glow, and sentiment excel. 
But, since these happy talents are not mine, 
Can I the transports of my heart define, 
And hope that pleasure to repay to thee, 
Which thou hast uniformly caus ? d to me. 
Whene'er thy frank discourse has sooth'd my ear, 
No voice e'er seem'd so soft, no theme so clear, 
Form'd to convince, and captivate, at will, 
I've felt its energy — I feel it still. 
Whether alone thy tuneful words I prize, 
Or, aided by the sparkling of thine eyes, 
They so affect me, it were hard to tell, 
But this I find — no others please so well. 
At this confession may no anger trace 
A momentary blemish on thy face. 



194 

But let thy wonted smiles thy brow adorn, 
Though far more dangerous than repulsive scorn. 
Tis not by light caprice, by distant pride, 
By testy humour, eager to deride, 
By captious temper, by demeanour sour, 
That beauty spreads her undisputed power : 
'Tis by a heart that generous feeling shows, 
Warm to its friends, forgiving to its foes 5 
By disposition patient, mild, and sweet, 
By conduct gentle, courteous, and discreet, 
By wit, which truth, and innocence, refine, 
In short, by rare endowments, such as thine, 
From prudery free, with vanity unmix d, 
Her fame's extended, and her empire iix'd. 
Frail is that friendship, and that passion slight, 
On which reflection dwells not with delight $ 
They falsely beam, and idly pass away, 
Like pleasing dreams that vanish with the day. 
Not so the love which real worth inspires, 
Pure are its motives, lasting are its fires j 
Then no regrets our secret thoughts invade, 
And shake the influence of the courted maid. 



195 

When temperate reason all her actions guides, 
And modesty o'er every act presides 5 
When charity, and goodness, stand confest 
The cherish'd inmates of her tender breast ; 
Such virtues ever shall enchanting be, 
Such virtues ever shall enchant in thee. 
If this effusion, from no lukewarm friend, 
Should the fine feelings of thy taste offend, 
Thou must not censure an attempt so bold, 
For lips so lovely were not made to scold. 
Soft tones, expressions affable, and kind, 
Suit thy fair person, and accomplish'd mind. 






\96 



TO A LADY, 

WITH A PHIAL OF OTTAH OF ROSES. 

The rose, the flower to beauty due, 
With justice may be claim'd by you. 
Young maids, with roses, wreaths prepare, 
Deftly to bind their glossy hair, 
Conferring on them fresher glow 
Than nature's pencil can bestow. 
The fragrance, which this glass encloses, 
Was press'd from aromatic roses : 
In Asia's genial clime they blew, 
Expos'd to meaner damsels' view 5 
Transported from their native land, 
They grace a brighter beauty's hand; 
To whom, as in this phial's pent 
Unnumber'd flowers of sweetest scent, 
A thousand charms their aid impart, 
To please the eye — to win the heart. 



197 



TO MARIA, 



STUDYING FRENCH. 



Long has our neighbour's tongue been found, 
Beyond what others can express, 
To yield the voice a softer sound, 
To give the thoughts a gayer dress. 

It is the language love desires, 
The most obdurate heart to melt, 
To represent his ardent fires, 
To make his fond emotions felt. 

Whene'er thou meetst, from Gallia's shore, 
A volatile good-humour'd race, 
With words impassion'd they'll adore 
The beauties of thy mind, and face. 



198 

It will these courteous swains delight 
Thus to display their ready wit ; 
That, though with English men they fight, 
To English women they submit. 

And when to thee their vows addrest 
Proclaim the wisdom of their choice, 
Then real love shall warm their breast, 
And simple truth inspire their voice. 

Did I their vivid style possess, 
J mpetnous, tender, and refln'd, 
My verse should fluently express 
The secret raptures of my mind. 

But all that genius could infuse, 
And all that harmony impart, 
I should not wish thee to peruse, 
If thou couldst but peruse my heart. 



199 



THE EFFUSION. 



With tender thoughts, and airy measure, 
That nymph shall animate my lays 
Who warms my breast with lively pleasure, 
Who swells my lips with fervent praise. 

To fly the power of her attractions 
What frigid means could I devise ? 
Such comely virtue guides her actions! 
Such beaming sweetness lights her eyes ! 

O charming maid ! with kind compliance, 
Receive the truth that I impart, 
Love is a pleasing, soothing science, 
That well will suit thy virgin heart. 



200 

Soft as the sportive zephyr s straying 
O'er verdant meads, and flowery dales. 
Professing, pleading, prattling, playing, 
The subtle conqueror prevails. 

A thousand lovers press around thee, 

Thy young affection to obtain ; 

Such wrangling numbers must confound thee, 

Such war of praise must give thee pain. 

Then from their clamorous persecution, 
Oh ! turn thy wearied mind to me, 
Whose love shall feel no diminution, 
Whose heart shall ever beat for thee. 



As holy priests a precious relic 
With care preserve, with zeal revere, 
So I would watch thy charms angelic, 
So I would hold thy virtues dear. 



201 

With cold reserve, and look disdainful, 
Then frown not all my hopes to air ; 
A state, so exquisitely painful, 
Is more than mortal strength can bear. 

But though, in form, and animation, 
Thou seem'st akin to those above, 
Oh! show me, by the frank donation, 
Thy heart's susceptible of love. 



202 



THE PREFERENCE. 

Maria ! if a beauteous face, 

A figure of unrivall'd grace, 

Can break the tender heart's defence,, 

To thee I give the preference. 

If charms, by nature's skill design'd 
To please and captivate mankind, 
Please most, adorn'd with diffidence, 
To thee I give the preference. 

If manners artless, meek, and pure, 
More eyes attract, more praise secure, 
Than studied care, and bold pretence, 
To thee 1 give the preference. 



203 

If it enchant the listening ear 
The cheerful tones of youth to hear 
From the fresh mouth of innocence, 
To thee I give the preference. 



If wit, benevolent, as bright, 
Discriminating taste delight 
With unaffected eloquence, 
To thee I give the preference. 

If humour, free from vain parade, 
With sweet simplicity display'd, 
Can interest, without offence, 
To thee I give the preference. 

If virtue, nor assum'd, nor rude, 
Alike in crowds, and solitude. 
Than beauty purer love dispense, 
To thee I give the preference. 



204 



Maria ! if I always find, 
Though thy face fade, thus fair thy mind, 
Fix'd by thy virtue, wit, and sense, 
Thou'lt ever have my preference, 



205 



THE REMONSTRANCE. 



How oft, when present ills offend, 

Is memory our kindest friend ! 
Her magic renovates the happy day 

That caus'd me first with love to glow ; 

Source of each tender joy I know ! 
The dear remembrance ne'er shall pass away. 

Though with thy youthful beauty charm'd 
No anxious thought my peace alarm'd, 

I felt no turbulence my breast inflame: 
Softly as western winds pervade 
The green recesses of the shade 

The subtle passion glided through my frame. 



206 

Though prudence see each peril near, 

Is admiration apt to fear ? 
Pleas'd with thy power, and thoughtless of my fate, 

Day after day I heard thy voice, 

Thy presence made my only choice, 
Nor dreamt of danger till it was too late. 

Thy unadorn'd attractions glow 

With colours fancy cannot show. 
Her pen of fire, her tints of brightest dyes, 

Would be inadequate, and faint, 

Thy mind angelical to paint, 
Trace thy fine form, and softly-sparkling eyes. 

Thy disposition is as mild 

And gracious as a playful child 5 
Thy sweet discourse the rapid time beguiles : 

The pure effusions of thy soul 

Unstudied charm, unfelt controul; 
Thy arms are virtue, innocence, and smiles. 



207 

If poor and humble be the swain 
Whose passion shall thy favour gain, 

A new existence shall his portion be ; 

Yes, beauteous maid ! the gift divine 
Shall raise his worth, his dross refine, 

And mould his happy heart more worthy thee. 



208 



THE DREAM, 

While late I lay, in slumbering trance, 

Methought I saw my fair advance. 

A muslin, white as Parian stone, 

O'er her fine form was loosely thrown. 

Her arms unveild ; her slender waist 

A spangled silken zone embraced -, 

Her glossy tresses, unconfin'd, 

Now floated on the sportive wind, 

Now round her snowy bosom twin'd. 

Such brightness from her visage beanVd, 

She more than Eve's descendant seem'd. 

On charms, so worthy to be prais'd, 

I long in dumb amazement gaz'd. 

Her lips, from which persuasion flows, 

In thoughts that melt, in phrase that glows, 

Our not unmeaning silence broke, 

And thus in tuneful accent spoke. 



209 

Oft have I sportingly profest 
That lovers' vows were but a jest, 
The amusement of a mind at ease, 
Or frivolous attempts to please. 
Now first I kind compassion know, 
I feel a new sensation glow 
Intensely through my alter'd frame] 
I feel a penetrating flame 
Search my young bosom, and impart 
Strange tumults to my aching heart. 
And thou no longer shalt complain 
That I am volatile, and vain \ 
Renew thy fond request, nor fear 
A cold reply, or look severe. 
Such words my vagrant doubts supprest, 
And boundless rapture fill'd my breast. 
No cross resistance, haughty glance, 
Arous'd me from my heavenly trance ; 
But kind regards, responsive sighs, 
And blushes, bright as Tyrian dyes, 
Coyness, half yielding, half afraid, 
Rejected not the suit I made $ 
p 



210 

But told, in silence, far more clear, 

Than softest cadences appear, 

* The secret that my mouth conceals, 

My looks betray, my bosom feels/ 

But whilst, ineffably benign, 

Her beaming eyes encounter'd mine, 

And bade me hope each bliss supreme 

That love could wish, or fancy dream, 

The east disclos d unwelcome day, 

And all the vision pass'd away. 



211 



THE ASCENDENCY. 



Now youth o'er thy bewitching face 
Its brightest tints has spread, 

Has added sprightliness, and grace, 
To purest white, and red, 

Charms far above the gems, and lace, 
That deck the matron's head; 



What crowds will thy delightful sway, 
With tender sighs, confess} 

In verse pathetic, grave, or gay, 
Their sentiments express 5 

Some having volumes vast to say, 
And some a little less. 



£12 

Could I the happy metre find, 

The true persuasive tone, 
That makes the female bosom kind, 

My skill should there be shown 5 
But can I know a lady's mind 

Which to herself 's unknown ? 

It needs the study of an age 

In prescience to excel ; 
But I, though no divining sage, 

Read thy endowments well, 
If features be a faithful page 

The secret thoughts to tell. 

Thine unequivocally show 

A disposition sweet, 
There sense, and brilliant fancy glow, 

There goodness holds her seat, 
There smiles for joy, and tears for woe, 

In lovely union meet. 



213 

Meek modesty, without whose grace 

All other charms are mean, 
There occupies her comely place, 

Now flutter'd, now serene, 
The lustre of the virgin's face, 

But ah ! too seldom seen. 

The bold deportment I detest, 
The tongue that's never still, 

The speech, in pompous periods drest, 
The proud unbending will, 

The noisy laugh, and saucy jest, 
That with amazement fill. 

I do not love the pretty prude, 

Affectedly demure, 
With such fine sentiment endued, 

She nothing can endure, 
Who thinks the world is grown so rude, 

She never is secure. 



214 

I love thy virtues, free from art, 
That seek no fleeting praise, 

Thy harmless mirth, thy sallies smart, 
That please a thousand ways, 

Thy tuneful tones that touch the heart, 
And sweet emotion raise. 

I love thy mild ingenuous air, 

That is whate'er it seems, 
That spurns each sly coquettish snare, 

And shuns all marked extremes, 
That's all for which thy sex should care, 

And all that our's esteems. 

Though beauty to the fair-one fall, 

And wit her portion be, 
Man must, to rest her constant thrall, 

Attractions greater see$ 
Worth, gentleness — to sum up all, 

She must resemble thee. 



2 15 



ON 

THE DEATH 



YOUNG LADYS CANARY BIRD. 

The warbler, to Maria dear, 
Is from his charming prison freed, 
Nor more shall sooth her listening ear, 
Nor more shall from her table feed. 

'Twas not his destiny to rove 
In fields of ether, unconfin'd, 
With carols to enchant the grove, 
And float upon the buoyant wind. 

But happier was his gentle doom, 
His friendly fortune far more bright, 
To flutter round Maria's room, 
And on her taper finger light. 



216 

Sweet chorister ! thy little bill 
From her fair hand receiv'd thy food, 
That hand the agent of her will 
Which ever joys in doing good. 

Too soon are hush'd thy dulcet strains ! 
Too soon thine airy spirit sleeps ! 
But rich the tear thy loss obtains, 
Thou'rt dead, and thy Maria weeps ! 

If any swain thy fate had prov'd, 
What envy had his lot assail'd, 
In life to be by her belov'd, 
In death to be by her bewaii'd. 




— /cJM" /Men //><■• /~<"<r > / /} y /c/.> o /•. 

<J/te>U/(s/ (/s<7<-/. <7/tr/ /////. //<■?/ s , 



Ionian Jfublislici as ihe .id directs, Jlpril %.xBo5. 



217 



ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 

There's no misfortune too severe 
For lenient time to chase away ; 
Again thy sprightly tones I hear, 
Again I see thy visage gay. 

Whether thy thoughts to joy give birth, 
Or grief thy pensive features show; 
We view thee beauteous in thy mirth, 
Nor less attractive in thy woe. 

Alike secure in both to charm, 
O ever spare our watchful fears ! 
With smiles alone our peace alarm, 
But never win us with thy tears. 



SONNETS. 



221 



I. 



See fair Maria in the jocund dance, 

With animated step, the figure trace, 

Young, gay, and happy, through the maze advance 

With sprightly look, and unassuming grace 5 

Her beaming beauty holds no second place ; 

Whilst, as she nimbly trips, expressive love 

Lurks in the dimples of her witching face; 

Her waving arms with airy action move; 

Array'd in elegant, and simple, dress, 

Her charms each moment on the heart improve 5 

And, as she passes through the gazing press, 

Light as the feather'd tenant of the grove, 

She seems unconscious of the ample reign 

Her sparkling eyes, and chaste demeanour, gain. 



222 



II. 



Because to various beauties I address 

An idle song, a tributary line, 

Think not, Maria! that I love thee less; 

They share my verse, my heart is wholly thine. 

And when for other damsels I entwine 

A trifling wreath, oh ! harshly do not deem 

My motive love : those transports are not mine 

I feel, when I can chuse my favourite theme. 

And if I other nymphs admire awhile, 

'Tis thy faint likeness that excites esteem, 

The partial semblance of thy winning smile 

That lulls my senses in a pleasing dream $ 

But when thy charms are to my sight display 'd 

The imperfect copies from my memory fade. 



223 



III. 



In manner, beauty, and in mind, supreme, 
Thou seem'st not thy superior worth to know; 
Though every eye thee first and fairest deem, 
Though every feeling heart on thee bestow 
The warmth of genuine praise, thou dost not show 
A sense of weakness, vanity, or pride $ 
But, ever valuing thy perfections low, 
The noblest sentiments thy conduct guide. 
In thee ingenuous modesty's display d, 
That wishes from the public search to hide, 
Seek the calm circle, or sequester'd shade, 
Where peace, and sweet simplicity, abide; 
Where truth appears, with countenance serene, 
And smooth hypocrisy is never seen. 



£24 



IV. 

Lives there a mortal, to each woe inur'd, 
Who views not hope, in distant prospect, bright? 
The pallid wretch, in dungeon dank immur'd, 
Anticipates the time when air, and light, 
Heaven's boon to all, his violated right, 
Again shall be his own : when storms assail 
The fragile bark, and shoals, and moonless night, 
Against the harassed seaman's skill prevail, 
Hope ne'er deserts him, but the vessel steers, 
Safe to the harbour, reckless of the galej 
And I, in spite of intervening fears, 
Her cheering promises presume to hail, 
And hope my persevering love shall find 
Regard, and favour, in Maria's mind. 



225 



Though time's short progress sunder human ties, 
Dissolving dreams that youth, and fancy, frame, 
The form I love, the virtues that I prize, 
Shall no such transitory homage claim. 
No puerile ecstacies my breast inflame, 
No vain acquirements my respect inspire; 
Soon the gay lover's rhapsodies are tame, 
Soon fade the features that the many fire. 
But when the rich endowments of the mind 
Confirm attachment, it shall ne'er expire. 
A twofold chain around my bosom's twind, 
Whose golden links I ever shall admire ; 
For the fair charmer of my heart unites 
Virtue that awes, with beauty that delights. 



£26 



VI. 



Whilst some, in search of honour, or of gain, 
With keel adventurous plough the boisterous sea, 
Or on the narrow breach, or dusty plain, 
Lavish their lives for fame's uncertain fee ! 
Alike from avarice, and ambition, free, 
Though not insensible to honest praise, 
Fair poesy alone has charms for me ; 
Beneath the umbrage of her spreading bays, 
Serene, and undisturb'd, I wish to dwell 5 
O ! may she deign my timid hopes to raise, 
O ! may she love to make my verse excel, 
As bright as Dryden's, soft as Spenser's lays. 
Though to the vulgar coy, O maid divine! 
Smiling to me thy bounteous boons resign. 



227 



VII. 

Sweet Spring! who from thine icy chain releas'd, 
Shak'st dewy fragrance from thy golden hair, 
Thou brightest daughter of the fostering east, 
Who paintest nature's face with tints most fair, 
Thee I invoke with thy enchanting air 
To grace my verse $ thou cloth'st in green the trees, 
Thou bid'st the mead a flowery vesture wear, 
Thou breath'st ambrosia on the passing breeze, 
Thou tun'st the nightingale's melodious tongue; 
Then, lovely prodigal ! alone to these 
Thy bounty do not stint, but let my song 
Be gay with thee who never fail'st to please. 
So in my lays each blooming flower shall meet, 
And every reader own my garland sweet. 



EPIGRAMS. 



EPIGRAMS. 



i. 



ON SIR WALTER RALEIGH S 

BURNING THE SECOND VOLUME OF HIS UNIVERSAL 
HISTORY. 



The world my labours sha'nt enjoy, 
Sir Walter cried in deep distress, 
And bade the flames his book destroy, 
His indignation to express : 
The world, Sir Walter! to annoy, 
Thou shouldst have sent it to the press. 



232 

2. 

Said Henry, I possess the knack 
Of making you a fool whene'er I please: 

You do indeed, retorted Jack, 
By palming on me your own repartees. 

3. 

A squire, once threatening a simple swain, 
Took up a stick to make his reasoning plain, 

And struck him many a painful stroke: 
Says one, who saw the squire the fellow lick, 
My friend, I'd counsel thee to burn the stick, 

And all his threats would turn to smoke 



4. 

I laugh, a would-be sapient cried, 
At every one who laughs at me : 
Good lord ! a sneering friend replied, 
How very merry you must be. 



233 

5. 

Whexe'er you marry, to his son 

A prudent father said, 
Take for thy loving helpmate one 

Rich widow, or rich maid; 
For any wife may turn out ill, 
But gad! the money never will. 

6. 

Poor Clara lost her loving mate, 
And decent tears bedew' d her cheek; 
She vow'd to wedlock endless hate, 
E'en if a prince her hand should seek : 
But, as none ward the stroke of fate, 
The mourner married in a week. 

7. 

Aspasia's cheeks, in vermil dress'd, 
With tender love my heart inspired; 
My lips her beauteous roses press'd. 
And took off all that I admir'd. 



234 



8. 



Poor John, who'd lost his darling wife, 
Went to a friend to sob, and whine, 
Who, griev'd to see him so repine, 
Exclaim'd, < good man ! upon my life, 
I wish your accident were mine/ 



9- 

Whether Lavater's fool, or sage, 
I know not by his chin, and eyes,- 
But by his works I will engage 
To prove he is not over wise. 



10. 

Tis stated, by a captious tribe, 
Travellers each other but transcribe; 
This charge to truth has no pretension, 
For half they write *s their own invention. 



235 



11. 



The monthly critics lavish their abuse, 
And trembling authors, right, or wrong, condemn, 
Nor retaliation fear 5 for who, the deuce I 
Would take the trouble of reviewing them ? 



12. 



UPON THE INNUMERABLE ClUOTATIONS IN A 
PRODUCTION CALLED THE 

PURSUITS OF LITERATURE. 



In this I think we must admit 
You have no common cunning shown, 
To grace your work with others' wit, 
Possessing little of your own. 



236 
13. 

ON THE SAME SUBJECT, 

Whence is't, with one enraptur'd mind, 
Scholars thy witty work commend ? 
Because, in all the wit they find, 
They recognize an ancient friend. 

14. 

You wish your lines I'd criticise, 
And almost importune me dead $ 
Oh ! ask me not, with themes so wise, 
To weary my unthinking head : 
The comment surely few will prize 
On verses that will ne'er be read. 

15. 

I've read your first poetic scroll 
And on it have my judgment past: 
e Well, tell me friend? ' — Upon my soul ! 
I think it should have been your last. 



237 

16. 

That scribe for plodding day, and night, 
Gives poor encouragement indeed ! 
The patience he has had to write 
What none the patience have to read. 



THE END. 



T. Bensley, Printer, 
Rolt Court, Fleet Street. 



'' "1 IV. i. 



*-' >H 



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